


Come Home to My Heart

by JuniperJuniper



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sad Geralt, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Smut, Werewolf Jaskier, Werewolves, bad dialogue in general, bad sex jokes, everyones sad and horny, everyones stupid, he cares deep down, just talk it out dummies, mandatory bath scene, probably too fluffy, really he does, they go to the coast okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22382797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperJuniper/pseuds/JuniperJuniper
Summary: For the third time that night, Jaskier found himself tossed out into the cold. Heart? Broken. Lute? Out of tune. Hotel? The Fiery Maiden. Or, at least, that's where he was headed, if not for the hungry wolf stalking the poor bard as he made his way back to the nearest town. Turns out, the wolf was no ordinary wolf and Jaskier would never make it back.Lying half-dead in a forest, bleeding from multiple newly acquired holes in his body, Jaskier thought the only thing that would make this situation worse was if Geralt somehow managed to find him.“Jaskier?”Well, speak of the devil.OrJaskier gets bit by a werewolf. He and Geralt are sad.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 609





	1. Beer and Wolves Don't Mix

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!  
> First of all, I just want to say that I have only seen the tv show and read the wiki. So if this doesn't make sense in canon, I'm sorry. It starts somewhere after episode 6 and will sorta tie in at the end of episode 8. Maybe idk.  
> The title is a lyric from Lorde's "Supercut" which is a good song. I promise.  
> I hope you guys enjoy.

For the third time that night, Jaskier found himself tossed out into the cold. 

The first time that night was when the husband of one of Jaskier’s lovers found the bard strumming his lute and wooing one of the tavern wenches. Although months have passed since Jaskier was found in her bed, the husband was still a little bit upset. Without even waiting to hear Jaskier’s rueful explanation of the whole situation, the man simply said, “so ruining one marriage wasn’t enough for you bard?” before, quite literally, grabbing Jaskier by the collar and tossing him out of the tavern, into the snow. Cold, wet, and irritated, Jaskier wandered off in search of another tavern. 

Stumbling upon _the Fiery Maiden_ was a stroke of good fortune. The tavern hung at the end of the town, discrete with cheap beer and eager townsfolk just waiting to be blessed with Jaskier’s tales of grand adventures and grumpy witchers. Despite two months, three weeks, and one day passing - not that Jaskier was counting - since their painful breakup, Jaskier still spread word of Geralt’s good deeds through each town he passed, hoping to improve the witcher’s reputation somewhat. Not that Geralt would ever do the same for him. Jaskier thought of the way Geralt’s teeth glinted like silver in the sunlight, how his eyes flashed, and voice echoed off the canyon. _He was my friend but I was not his._ But Jaskier was determined not to feel anything more painful than a hangover so he banished Geralt from mind and entered the tavern. After drowning three beers and paying the tavern wench with promises of future coin, Jaskier stood at the front of the tavern and proceeded to tell the ignorant townsfolk the feats of Geralt of Rivia through song, music, and occasional dance. Which quickly lead to the second time Jaskier was cast out into the cold.

“Fuck off, bard. Go sing your songs somewhere else.”

Huffing, Jaskier stood and brushed the snow from himself and his poor lute. “You lot wouldn’t know talent if it jumped up and bit you on the dick!” he called to the closed tavern door. Leaning against the outside wall, strumming his lute while deep in thought, Jaskier tried to come up with a game plan. Although visiting another town was a definite yes, traveling at night as a mere bard was a horrible idea. Bandits, wolves, angry husbands. All were equally terrifying to stumble upon at night. Finding a place to sleep was another matter entirely. No way Jaskier would be allowed in either tavern again, coin or no. 

Seducing his way into a bed seemed likely, but Jaskier quickly thought better of it, considering it was wooing a married woman that got him there in the first place.

“Perhaps a manger,” Jaskier spoke to himself. So deep in thought, Jaskier did not notice the figure standing before him, only until a nimble finger traced the shell of his ear.

“Fuck!” Jaskier screamed, throwing his lute. Light laughter filled the chilled air as Jaskier bent to retrieve the battered instrument. When he stood to give his attacker a piece of his mind, the very breath Jaskier was going to use vanished from his lungs. Before him stood the most beautiful woman he had ever seen: pale skin, white hair, amber eyes, wedding ring. The woman reminded him of another silver-haired beauty but with golden eyes, calloused hands, and a rough exterior. Jaskier thought of their travels and their supposed friendship and quickly banished Geralt from his mind.

“Poor bard. Did I startle you?” The woman asked, brushing her fingers along his chest.

“Not at all, my lady, I was merely . . . warming up my singing voice with some scales.”

She chuckled again, light and airy. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. A handsome bard like yourself must always keep his voice his top priority.”

Jaskier reexamined his reasons not to sleep with another man’s wife and found the list extremely short. “And I wonder what a woman like yourself keeps in top priority.” She smirked at that.

“Let’s just say my husband is away, and I have an itch needing to be scratched.”

“Do you, perhaps, have a biscuit in need of buttering?”

“Oh yes, bard. I have a loaf pan in need of greasing.”  
“Well, then, Lady . . .”

“Lady Yevveta and I believe you and I have business to attend.”

So Jaskier followed to the woman to her villa, a mile north of town, where she proceeded to let him inside, lead him upstairs, and remove the burden of his shirt off his shoulder. However, it seemed that Jaskier’s good fortune had run out, because, only mere seconds after unlacing the back of Lady Yevveta’s dress, did her husband call up from the first floor.

"Yevveta, my love! I have returned,”

“Fuck!” she hissed while shoving Jaskier away. “He’s back early.”  
“Well, maybe I can -”

“What the fuck are you still doing here? Get out!”

“Get out where? He’ll see me!”  
“The window, you daft cock,” 

And that is how Jaskier found himself hanging from the windowsill of a married woman’s home. One by one, his fingers slipped and Jaskier went hurling down two stories and into the snow. A second later, his lute was flung from the window and landed on his left. And for the third time that night, Jaskier found himself tossed out to the cold; lost, wet, and horny. Jaskier had half a mind to climb into her window again, newly returned husband be damned, and demand to spend the night in the warmest bed they had. However, the risks far outweighed the rewards and Jaskier fancied keeping his dick and head attached to his body. So Jaskier began the long walk of shame back to town, where at least he could find a nice barn to spend the night. 

Following the road back was less treacherous than Jaskier would have thought. Yeah sure, the way the forest seemed the reach for Jaskier with snow-dusted branches resembling long claws more than anything, but on the bright side, the moon was bright as candlelight and full as a bowl of cream. Jaskier counted his blessings where he could. But, fifteen minutes had passed and Jaskier was freezing. Blessings were running thin. 

He trembled with every step and watched as his breath turned to fog before him. “How much longer,” he muttered to himself while clutching his lute for warmth. “I should have been back by now.” Then the worst though came to Jaskier. What if he was lost? The wrong turn down the wrong road? A left instead of a right? Fuck. Jaskier strummed his lute in though. Go back or keep going? He looked around the road for clues but everything looked the same: same road, same trees, same snow.

Huh. That was new.

Jaskier looked farther down the long dirt road and spied a lone figure standing and watching him. Jaskier almost raised his hand in greeting, but a sudden thought compelled him to stop, _what would Geralt do?_ And Jaskier considered this, he really did. He weighed the pros and cons, analyzed the situation, and surveyed the area. Twice! Still, Jaskier came to the same conclusion, _fuck Geralt._ He smothered that little voice that sounded suspiciously like Geralt with a pillow and threw his arm in the air, waving madly. 

“Hello there!” he called. “I’m extremely lost and was wondering if you could help me find the nearest village. I have -” he didn’t have coin. “I have the means to repay your kindness.” The person did not answer. It stood, cloaked in shadows, and watched Jaskier slowly approach. Then, as Jaskier grew near enough to make out the gleaming of its sharp teeth, it tossed back its head and let loose an ear-splitting howl. 

“Fuck!” Jaskier screamed while tripping on his feet and falling to his ass. “Fuck, shit, fuck!” He stared at the beast for a fraction of a second, before scrambling off the ground and, lute in hand, barreling into the forest. His feet hit the ground hard, echoing off the trees like a drum beat. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ Jaskier weaved through the forest with as much grace as an elephant, slamming into tree trunks, tripping over stray roots, and falling into every puddle he could find. Soon he was lost. Every tree looked the same, every rock, every bush. There was no landmark Jaskier could find, no way of knowing which direction he was running. As the forest grew thicker, the night grew darker. Only the thinnest slivers of moonlight were able to cut through the canopy, barely enough light for Jaskier to see. 

As he ran, tree branches whipped across his face, cutting into the tender flesh of his cheeks, coaxing blood to the surface. Behind him, yips and growls flooded the forest, chilling him to the bone. With aching legs, Jaskier fought to keep moving, blinded by fear, panting hard as a fire raged in his lungs, hoping to put as much distance as possible between him and the wolf. Iron and salt were heavy on his tongue; Jaskier lifted his hand to swipe at the sweat running down his forehead only to pull away and discover that blood, not sweat, covered his finger. A stray branch, likely.

Animalistic shrieks echoed off the trees as the wolf grew closer and closer. At that moment, Jaskier knew he only had moments to live. In the blink of an eye, Jaskier found himself sprawled face down in the dirt, lute flying from his hand. Old, musty leaves clung to his face and filled his mouth causing him to hack and spit. The wolf, pinning him to the ground with its weight, panted in his ear, hot breath curling against the back of his neck.

“Bad dog.” Jaskier choked out. The wolf growled. From the corner of his eye, Jaskier watched a trail of drool swing from its mouth and fall to the forest floor. “Please don’t eat me.” Jaskier choked on an assault of rotten meat breath against his face. Without warning, the wolf reared back and sank its teeth into the fleshy meat above Jaskier’s hip. He screamed. With a jerk of its head, the wolf sent Jaskier flying into a tree, head cracking against its trunk. Red spots clouded his vision and his stomach churned, the three beers bubbling in his belly.

Eyes pressed closed, fighting away the pain and nausea, Jaskier focused on moving his body away from his attacker. A snarl tore from the wolf’s throat and Jaskier felt teeth clamp down over his collar, ripping the skin and snapping the bone. The pain was unbelievable. It felt as if Jaskier was trapped in a blazing fire, hot pain engulfing his body with every movement. He squealed as the wolf then splintered his ankle with a snap of its powerful jaws. With its long snout, the wolf rolled him onto his back. 

Jaskier could see through the thicket to stare at the starless sky. 

From his peripheral vision, he could see that the wolf was finished playing with its prey and was ready to dig into Jaskier’s juicy man flesh. It bared its long, white fangs and buried them into the soft flesh of Jaskier’s belly, where the previous bite had been. Jaskier watched through eyes not of his own, as if he were another person watching himself become a midnight snack. His blue tunic was torn and bloody. Bits of scrap fabric was stuck in the wolf’s teeth, dangling from its mouth like some sort of fashion statement. Numbly, Jaskier though it looked tacky. 

In the black of night, the beast loomed above him, panting, slobbering, bloody, carnage dripping from its mouth. Jaskier’s vision was cloudy, eyes hot and droopy, arms limp and heavy, body torn and bloody. He was almost sad that this was how his life would end. More so upset that no one had witnessed his fight for his life. Jaskier thought of all the potential songs that could be sung about a poor bard killed by a hungry wolf. _The bard and the wolf, or, the midnight chase, or even the bloodied lute._ All that potential wasted. Jaskier was sad but mostly tired. Very tired. So tired, in fact, that he didn’t mind the strings of drool that fell from the beast’s mouth. It stood above him, teeth sharp and glinting in the moonlight, red drool pooling from its mouth. Ruining Jaskiers already bloodied shirt. The wolf didn’t move. Its teeth were long and sharp, growing by the second, the red slobber pouring now. One tooth, in particular, stood out to Jaskier. Far longer than the rest, it protruded from the wolf’s neck. _How odd,_ Jaskier thought as he drifted to sleep.

“Fuck! Jaskier?” 

Jaskier groaned. No way. 

The wolf tumbled to the side, blood spurting from the fresh hole in its neck. A man stood before Jaskier, sword in hand, bathed in silver moonlight, hair white as bone, eyes yellow as stars. _If I live, I’ll have to write a song about this,_ Jaskier thought to himself _._ Geralt was kneeling at Jaskier’s side within milliseconds, moving far too fast for Jaskier’s cloudy mind to catch up. Ice-cold fingers pressed into his jugular, where the blood weakly pulsed beneath the skin. 

“Fuck.” Geralt, the wordsmith, said.

“Well said. Really.” Jaskier bit out.

“Jaskier - ” Geralt began to speak but Jaskier cut him off.

“Oh fuck off. Why does it have to be you?” he said to the witcher. “Why can’t you just let me die in peace.” Of course the last person Jaskier would find before death is Geralt. Can’t even escape the man in death. As Jaskier cursed Geralt, voice growing hoarse and faint, his eyes slipped lower and lower. The last Jaskier saw was snowy white hair and yellow, yellow eyes.

  
  



	2. Alive, but at what cost?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier wakes up and takes a bath

Peeling his crusty, sleep-ridden eyes open, Jaskier concluded that he wasn’t dead. And if the agonizing pain in his stomach and his joints was anything to go by, he was very much alive. Jaskier blinked away the foggy mess of his mind. Memories of the wolf were hazy, but the way the wolf’s teeth tore at his human flesh was very much clear. Right on cue, his stomach flared in pain.

Jaskier had thought, if he were to wake at all, it would be in a grave. Instead, he had landed himself in a cozy room, with goose down pillows, small oak bookcases, and heavy fur blankets. Logs crackled in the fireplace. Shadows cast by the flames danced across the walls and, from his position on the bed, Jaskier could see through the casement window to watch the stars twinkling in the night sky. It was like a dream; perfect in every way. 

And Jaskier wasn’t ungrateful, not at all. Waking in a room right out of a fairytale was always better than waking as some midnight snack, digesting in the belly of a rabid wolf. Yet, between the agony of his stomach and the sandy desert of his throat, Jaskier found it hard to look on the bright side of things. 

After a minute or so, Jaskier decided that the need for a beverage to quench his thirst was greater than the need to lie still. He would risk the pain for a sip of water or wine. But anything would do at that point. Jaskier was desperate enough to drink fermented mare milk if given the chance. He sat up in search of something to drink. Wrong move. 

“Fuck.” Jaskier croaked, as searing white pain shot through every nerve in his body; from the base of his skull, down to the littlest toe on his foot. In an instant, a chair to his right scraped across the wood floor. The sound cut into Jaskier’s head like thousands of little knives carving into his brain as if it were a pumpkin. 

“Jaskier? You’re awake.” 

Jaskier eased his head towards the voice, fighting a rush of vertigo. Geralt leaned over him, white hair an unruly mess, purple shadows under his eyes. He looked as if he had spent the night. Jaskier didn’t know what to make of that. He settled on giving Geralt a wan smile instead. “I live, for now.” Each word was more painful than the last, scratching at Jaskier’s throat and causing him to cough.

“You sound terrible.” Geralt stated. He stood from his chair and walked over to the corner of the room where a silver pitcher and goblet occupied a round table. At that moment, Jaskier would have sold his left nut for a sip of water. Luckily for him, his wish was answered with his nuts remaining intact. Geralt, the saint, filled the goblet to the brim with clear spring water. It was the most beautiful sound Jaskier had ever heard, _glug, glug, glugging_ of the water was a song from the gods. Geralt carried the goblet and jug over, setting the jug on the bedside table and extending his arm to hand Jaskier the goblet. Only, Jaskier couldn’t take it. His arms were as heavy as stones and, although he was able to lift them off the bed, the overwhelming sensation of having a knife pierce his gut overtook him. Jaskier hissed between his teeth. 

“I can’t.” He said, voice warbly. At least Geralt had the courtesy to look ashamed.

“Right, of course, you can’t.” He muttered, more to himself than Jaskier. Far too gently for a man of his size, Geralt placed his knee on the bed, mindful of Jaskier’s sore body, and raised the goblet to Jaskier’s lips. The cool water ran down his throat, soothing the irritated flesh and instantly relieving the pain. He drank until the goblet was empty then two more times after that. After the third goblet of water, Geralt refused Jaskier’s plea for another. 

“You’ll drown if you drink any more, bard.” Geralt placed the goblet onto the end table and sat at the edge of Jaskier’s bed. A few awkward moments passed when a sudden wave of drowsiness overcame Jaskier. Against his own volition, Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut. 

“Jaskier, I need to -.” 

But Jaskier wasn’t listening. As he sank into a deep slumber, Jaskier imagined the ghost of Geralt’s finger brushing away the damp hair clinging to his forehead.

“Sleep well, my friend.” 

_How odd._

Jaskier woke for the second time in the same room, same bed, but in different company. “Hello, Yen,” Jaskier was pleased to discover that he no longer spoke with a rasp. Although he was still a bit parched. 

“Ah, Jaskier, you live to see another day,” Yennefer said, violet eyes flashing with - what? Mischief? Humor? All-knowingness? Jaskier had no idea, but whatever was behind that never-aging face was not good. 

“When did you get here?” Jaskier asked while cautiously shifting his body. To his surprise, only little pinpricks of pain followed, a welcome contrast to the agony of before. He wiggled his fingers and toes, finding them still intact. He blinked away the eye crusties. He even stretched out his stiff shoulders. Finally, Jaskier shuffled his body around so he was propped, somewhat comfortably, against the headboard. Yennefer took pity on the bard and shoved a few pillows behind his back for extra support.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier eyed Yennefer suspiciously. “Are you being nice to me?” Yennefer turned her back on Jaskier, busying herself with potions and contraptions on a square table. Jaskier gasped. “You are! You’re being nice to me. _You_ are being nice to _me._ What’s the occasion? Is there a wedding? A funeral? Is it mine? Am I dying?” He pushed down the furs covering his chest and lifted the fresh tunic to inspect the wreckage of his stomach. To his immense relief, instead of horrific scars and disfigured flesh, there was only a large bite, formed by two rows of sharp, even teeth sinking deep into his side. With the tips of his fingers, he traced the puckered, scabbed skin, where the skin had torn then stitched itself together. In less than a week, his body had completely healed itself. 

The oddity made him nauseous. 

Instead of dwelling, he pressed on to examine his collar, finding the bone healed, though tender, and the bite pink and scabby. 

“Won’t this make a fine song. ‘The tale of the heroic bard defeating an abominable beast in the forest and. . . receives a nasty scar.’ Eh, it’s a working title.” He stole a glance at Yen. Her violet eyes pierced through him, analyzing, her fingers clutching a glass jar. 

“Yennefer?” Jaskier contemplated throwing one of those fancy throw pillows at her but eventually decided no, because of big, scary magic and all that. Instead, he settled for whistling a tune while he waited. 

“You heal nicely,” Yen said at last.

Jaskier thought the same but was too afraid of the potential answer. “And what does that mean?” 

“It means that, while I wish I could take credit for healing your injuries, all I was able to mend was your breaks. Your body did the rest. Although, with the wounds you received, it’s a miracle that you’re able to breathe, let alone talk as much as you are.” 

Jaskier thought for a moment, rolling the idea around in his head. He was definitely human. No elven genes or witcher blood or sorcery that he knew of. On the other hand, Jaskier had never been ripped apart before. Maybe he had abilities and never knew. 

Jaskier grinned at Yen. “I bet you wished I suffered a bit more. Took a few more blows to the throat. Mauled a bit more thoroughly.” 

Yen curled her lips into a vicious, sardonic smile. “A few more days of peace and quiet would have been nice.” 

“Speaking of which, how long was I asleep.” 

“Three days after Geralt brought you here, then one more after you last woke up.” She pulled back the furs and inspected Jaskier’s wound for herself. Then after a few seconds of scrutiny, Yennefer decided on rubbing a mossy green salve over the bite. 'To prevent infection' she said. After pressing a clean bandage over the salve, Yen pulled the covers up to his chin. She placed a long, dark root in his mouth, 'hemlock, for pain' and continued her magicy busy work. 

“And where is here, anyway.” The better question would have been ‘why did Geralt bother recusing me?’ or ‘why did he bring me to you?’ or even ‘where is the emotionally constipated witcher anyway?’ But he settled on something safe.

“ _The Sleeping Striga_ inn where, by the way, the innkeeper generously allowed you to bleed all over her floor. And considering no other inn would take us, I would suggest you thank her for her hospitality.”

“I will definitely make sure to do that. I’ll even write a song for the generous innkeeper and her impeccable hospitality. Well, fuck, that’s two songs I have to write. No inspiration all month and suddenly I’m struck by the muses on my deathbed! I should die more often.” Jaskier paused. “Where’s my lute?” 

“Gone. And thank the gods for it; if I have to hear one more -” At that moment, the door opened and in stepped the grumpy witcher himself. Geralt stole a quick look at Yennefer and an even longer look at Jaskier. Jaskier wondered if there was something on his nose. 

“I just got back. From the market.” Geralt said. 

Yennefer gave him a withering look. “Took you long enough. Did you find them on another continent? Anyway, I best take my leave. I’m sure you two have much to talk about and I would only get in the way.” She gave Geralt a _look,_ repeated ‘much to talk about’ under her breath, before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. 

The room was far too quiet for Jaskier’s liking. He coughed to fill the silence. Geralt raised an eyebrow at him while lingering in the doorway. Both said nothing. Geralt looked away. No surprise there. Once again, Jaskier fucked up, made a stupid choice, and dragged Geralt into his mess. Obviously, Geralt was itching for the chance to leave Jaskier. Give him the old, _hey, I’m glad you’re alive and all but it’s time for me to go._ It was likely the only reason Geralt was even in town was to slaughter some beast and, being the man he was, probably stayed to make sure Jaskier would live, before disappearing forever. And who could blame him? All Jaskier ever brought was annoyance and trouble, Geralt said it himself. 

Geralt sighed. “You heal well,” he said, at last, approaching as if Jaskier was a wild animal bound to spook at a moment’s notice. Jaskier swallowed a few times before speaking, just to make sure his voice wouldn’t betray his emotions. “Why Geralt, if my calculations are correct, that was a compliment.” Geralt rolled his eyes. “Although, it’s strange that you would mention my new found healing powers. Yennefer said the same thing to me this. . . afternoon?” 

Geralt nodded. 

“Right, afternoon, okay. Still the question - sort of implied question - stands,” he tossed down the covers, hiked up his tunic, and inspected his wound. “Did I heal unusually fast? I’ve gotten into a few fights in my time -” 

Geralt snorted. “Why am I not surprised?” 

Jaskier laughed at that. It was strange to laugh with, or maybe laugh _around_ , Geralt, but it was not unwelcome. “Oh, you know the usual bunch: angry husbands, zealous cult leaders, mobs.” Geralt nodded and sat on the bed. Now a fairly common occurrence. 

“Say, Geralt. I have another question,” 

“When do you not?” 

Jaskier huffed but turned a deaf ear to the comment. “How did you find me when you did? I mean, the odds - they’re astronomically slim! You just happened to be in the same forest, in the same town, in the same - the same country? No way. Impossible. You know what? Just - just explain to me how exactly did you find me in that forest. I mean - it cannot be _that_ easy to find one person in an entire forest!”

Geralt ran a hand through his silver hair, tugging on the stands. Almost nervously. “I was hunting . . . I found . . . It was your scent.” 

“My scent? My scent! What does that even mean? There are hundreds of scents in a forest and you just happened to notice mine. Did you happen to memorize what I smelled like just in case of events like this? Do you memorize all your travel companion’s smells?” 

Geralt’s brow furrowed. “Of course I know your smell,” Jaskier’s face went red at that. “Besides,” Geralt continued. “You stumble into trouble so often, it’s a wonder you’ve made it as far as you have.”

Jaskier squawked indignantly. “I do _not_ ‘stumble into trouble.” Or maybe he did. “Anyway, that doesn’t explain how you found me.” 

“Your blood. It was in the air. I could smell it for miles,” he paused and looked at the floor. “And you were screaming.” 

For once Jaskier was at a loss for words. “Oh,” was all that came out. Moments passed as they sat in silence; Jaskier watched the snowflakes drift along outside the window, Geralt watched the logs smolder in the fireplace. It was normal again. It was like a time before their argument. A time when Jaskier would prattle on about something and Geralt would pretend he wasn’t listening, although they both knew that was a lie. In those quiet moments by the fire, Jaskier would have begged to go on another adventure. Only if he could be with Geralt again. 

Without warning, Geralt stood and faced the bard. “Jaskier. What do you want?” Jaskier recoiled from the force of his words. “In life, I mean. What do you want in life?” 

Jaskier though for a moment. “Other than a surplus of food, women, and wine?” Geralt didn’t even crack a smile. “Not much, I suppose. A song to sing and an audience to listen. What more can a bard want?” 

Geralt said nothing. For an agonizing moment, Jaskier feared his words were a mistake. Maybe, Geralt was looking for a different answer, something grandiose like finding a cure for Catriona or feeding the poor or becoming the king of a small island. 

“Jaskier, I need to -” Geralt was serious, even more serious than usual, and Jaskier was not ready for this conversation; it was too soon, far too soon. Jaskier wasn’t ready for Geralt to leave him, again. To tell him to leave, again. To break his heart, again. 

Jaskier cut him off immediately. “Geralt, there is one thing I want more than anything.” His golden eyes were sharp, and piercing, and every other poetic description Jaskier could think of, and those eyes were on _him._ “A bath. Honestly, that’s all this humble bard could ever want. A nice warm bath, with some of those - what are they called? Those fancy flowers the tavern wenches throw in to make the water smell nice? I want those flowers in my bath. They’re good for the skin, right?” 

Geralt raised his hands in surrender. “Aright Jaskier. I’ll have the innkeeper draw you a bath,” 

“A hot bath!” Jaskier called to Geralt’s retreating back. “With flowers!”

A hot bath was Jaskier’s desire and a hot bath was what he received.

“You know, Geralt, as much as I enjoy your company, I don’t think I need your help bathing.”

“And if you slip and break your neck?”

“Anyone could slip and break their neck in the bath. And not two hours ago, you said, and I quote, ‘you heal well.’ So what’s the truth Geralt? Did I heal well or did you lie to a poor, injured bard?”

“You twist my words.” Pulling Jaskier’s arm around his shoulder, Geralt assisted Jaskier in the slow task of hobbling to the steaming tub without slipping and cracking both their asses on the slick stone floor. Although Jaskier’s outer wounds had sealed, the muscles torn from running for his life had decided to freeze up and refuse to cooperate. Just his luck, too. The embarrassment literally falling out of bed then having Geralt bridal carry him through the inn and into the bathing room was too great. Jaskier was just as likely to die from mortification as he would his wounds. 

“Besides,” Geralt continued. “If you die now, all my hassle would have been for nothing.” Of course. Hassle. Why did Jaskier think this time was any different? Once again, Geralt went out of his way to save him and now, Jaskier didn’t even have a lute to sing a song with. 

Once they reached the tub, both men came to the realization that Jaskier was still fully clothed. No big deal. Jaskier had seen Geralt naked plenty of times throughout their travels, no reason this should be any different. Except it was different and Jaskier could feel the tension radiating off Geralt like the heat radiated off the sun. 

“I think I can manage from here. If not, I’ll scream or make a funny noise, or something,” 

Geralt untangled their limbs and guided Jaskier to the edge of the tub, where he could balance himself against the edge. Jaskier circled his finger in the air, indicating for Geralt to turn around so Jaskier could save himself from further humiliation. Perching on the lip of the tub, ass hanging over the side, Jaskier faced the difficult task of stripping with limited use of his arms and legs. Against the very laws of nature itself, every single muscle in Jaskier’s body was sore and either aching, spasming, throbbing, or all three. Jaskier wished for another dose of hemlock root. Maybe a couple more to make the dosage lethal, to put him out of his misery. Next came the impossible task of unbuttoning a shirt with lead fingers was made even more unlikely by the constant tremors in his limbs. After fumbling with each item of clothing for many long minutes, all that ended up on the floor were his boots, socks, and belt. Geralt, ever obedient, stood in the corner of the room, near-silent, if not for the constant chuckling at Jaskier’s every ‘ _fuck, shit, tit,_ _dammit_ ,’ and ‘ _balls_.’ Jaskier watched Geralt for a moment before calling out to him.

“Geralt, it appears that I need some assistance.”

Geralt said nothing and approached Jaskier with the confidence of a man who helps every poor bard he finds strip naked in a bathing room. Wherever this self-assuredness came from, Jaskier was grateful because gods know he was a mess. 

He started with Jaskier’s tunic. Slipping the silver buttons from their hole took Geralt only a handful of seconds when Jaskier must have fumbled with them for hours. Geralt pushed the fabric down Jaskier’s shoulders and guided his stiff arms out of the sleeves. Bare from the waist up, Jaskier watched Geralt watch him. Strange it was, to see how Geralt’s eyes always lingered at the bite, how his fingers twitched and curled into his palms, how his nose flared as if scenting Jaskier. 

“Geralt, are you smelling me?” His fingers froze on the buttons of Jaskier’s trousers. Quickly, he continued threading the buttons through, although ‘fumbling’ was a better-suited term for it. “You smell like shit. What other choice do I have.” 

Jaskier clicked his tongue in response. “Sorry I don’t smell like roses after being nearly killed. You try almost dying.”

“I do. Every day.”

Jaskier braced himself against the tub, fingers gripping the edges, as Geralt pushed down the trousers, over his bum and down his legs. Then, ever the gentleman, Geralt turned around, giving Jaskier the opportunity to slip out of his small clothes and, while bracing a hand against Geralt’s impossibly large bicep, awkwardly climb into the wooden tub. Instantly, the steaming water soothed his achy muscles, drawing out the stiffness and evaporating it into the air. Jaskier moaned, letting his head fall back against the tub. 

“Oh this is heavenly,” Jaskier lazily pushed a blushed peony around in the clouded water. The silky petals dissolved under the touch of his fingers. Through the steam, Jaskier watched Geralt pull a stool up next to the tub and take a seat. 

“I’m sure there’s enough room for two in here,” Jaskier winked. By the look on Geralt’s face, the physics of fitting two grown men in that small of the tub was doubtful. “Well, the offer still stands in case you get chilly over there.”

“I highly doubt it.”

Jaskier splashed water at him. He then began the tedious process of washing his hair. Although the hot water did wonder to his muscles, his arms were still stiff and unresponsive, preferring to freeze up. 

“Here.” Geralt snatched the jar of oils from Jaskier’s hold. He poured a coin-sized dollop into his palm then slathered Jaskier’s hair with the scented oil, scratching his fingers into Jaskier’s scalp oh so deliciously. Jaskier sank lower into the water, eyes closed, just enjoying the moment. 

But something was off.

"You’re brooding, Geralt.”

“I’m not brooding.”

Jaskier opened his eyes to look at Geralt. “I can see your face. It’s right in front of me. You’re brooding. See - see look at that face; that’s your brooding face right there.” Geralt huffed and poured a bucket of water over Jaskier’s head.

“Oh, yeah, well, yeah great, _thanks,_ Geralt. Thank you for that,” he swiped the water from his eyes and maneuvered his body, sloshing petals over the sides of the tub in the process, to face Geralt. “Talk to me, Geralt. I’ll listen to your troubles,”

“You make up the majority of my troubles,” His tone was soft and Jaskier grinned in response. 

“Tell me anyway. Maybe there’s something I could do to help?” Geralt’s golden eyes flashed with something Jaskier could not name yet sent heat rushing to his belly, heat not produced by his bite. 

“There is something.” Geralt’s hands gripped the edge of the tub, arms spread wide as if he were caging Jaskier in, and he leaned towards the bard, golden eyes dark and wild. Shiver after shiver raced up Jaskier’s spine as he stretched forward to meet Geralt. A ghost of a breath was upon Jaskier’s check. Calloused fingers traced his jaw. Sharp teeth grazed his neck. 

Jaskier felt faint. From the heat of the tub, the warmth of the witcher, and the excitement in his belly, Jaskier was overwhelmed, senses assaulted at every turn. He could smell the beads of sweat running down Geralt’s neck, hear the beating of their hearts inside their chests, and taste the salt upon his lips. It was all too much. Too late did Jaskier notices the trembling of his body when Geralt suddenly pulled back. 

“Jaskier,” he said, eyes too sharp and seeing. 

Jaskier gripped Geralt’s arms, body still shaking uncontrollably. “I think something’s wrong. I can’t stop shaking. What’s happening, Geralt? Am I dying? I’m dying, aren’t I. Oh fuck, I’m far too pretty to die so soon,”

“Jaskier, shut up.” Geralt hooked his arms beneath Jaskier’s underarms and pulled him out of the tub. Wrapping Jaskier in the largest towel in existence, Geralt bundled him up and carried him back to his room. 

“Yen,” Geralt called, kicking open the door and marching in. Yennefer took one look a Jaskier trembling in Geralt’s arms before grabbing a handful of the various vials and potions on the table and mixing them together. Jaskier was placed on the bed with great care. His trembling fingers pulled the towel closer for warmth. Water dripped from Jaskier’s body into a puddle on the floor. Yennefer appeared before him, prying open his mouth, and tilting a vile liquid down his throat. 

“Drink, bard.” The substance burned all the way down as Jaskier fought to swallow. It was like drinking liquid fire, melting the skin inside his throat, igniting his insides. Tears coursed down his cheeks as Jaskier tried to claw at his neck, fighting the hands that gripped his wrists. Within seconds, Jaskier’s eyelids grew heavy and he collapsed on the bed in a dead sleep.


	3. Tell It to the Moon

Something was inside him, under his skin, buried beneath his bones, festering and feasting. It breathed when he breathed. It’s heart pulsed when his heart pulsed. When he ate, it ate. The thing inside him was him. A parasite. Wielding the jagged edges of his fingernails, he carved into the tender skin of his wrist where the veins ran like blue streams, until crimson blood rose to the surface and ran down the split skin. Either the creature would leave on its own accord or he would tear his body apart limb from limb and drag it out himself.

“Fuck! Jaskier stop that!” Yennefer shrieked with a voice too sharp in his ears and fingers too tight around his wrist. “What the fuck are you doing? Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Jaskier said nothing, holding his breath, eyes glued to his wrist. The two of them watched as the crescent moon gouges bled and bled and bled. Until, after a few endless minutes, the blood grew sluggish, turning a copper brown hue before stopping altogether. Slowly yet surely, Jaskier’s skin stitched itself together with an invisible thread until there was nothing left. No cut, no scar. No pain. As if nothing happened at all, as if everything was peachy keen, as if there wasn't something curled up in his stomach. But Jaskier knew enough truths to piece together the whole: he was bitten by a wolf, he had impossible healing abilities, there was something inside him. Jaskier knew.

Jaskier leaned off the bed and threw up into a nearby pail. In it was the contents of Jaskier’s stomach: beer and bile. Yennefer’s lip curled at the smell of it. The smell of acid and yeast. He hadn’t eaten anything solid in two days, too ill to stomach anything firmer than beer, despite the kindly innkeeper’s persistence on feeding Jaskier her homemade rabbit stew. He had to decline. The spices wafting from the kitchen mixed with the smell of fresh blood from the rabbit flooded his mouth with saliva and left him both sneezing and drooling for hours. It all was too overwhelming and Jaskier had to take a long walk to fight off the urge to devour.

Yennefer’s hand covered Jaskier’s forehead, checking for a fever. If it were any other day, it would have been odd for Yennerfer to act like a decent human being towards Jaskier, let alone maternal, but the past week has been, hands down, the most peculiar week of Jaskier’s life. And that’s after smuggling a goose into a countess’s bedchambers, seducing a grave hag, and eating some strange mushrooms he found growing off some rocks. That last one ended with Geralt shoving his fingers down Jaskier’s throat and berating him for the next three and a half days. Good times.  
Yennefer sighed, pulled her hand away, and reached for the pail of bile to throw out the opened window. While she worked, Jaskier picked at the dried blood on his arm. The creature inside him stirred, restless.

“You don’t have any more of that potion, do you?” Jaskier tried not to sound too desperate.

“Which one?” She closed the window. “I literally have the knowledge to create hundreds of potions at my fingertips. You’ll have to be more specific than that,”

“Right. Yes. Sorry. I guess I thought you’d remember the potion that you forced down my throat a couple of nights ago. The one that burned the shit out of my esophagus and gave me blisters - blisters!- on my tongue. I sure remember it.”

“Gods, Jaskier. You know that potion won’t work,” Yennefer brushed away strands of black hair away from her face. For once, the dark bags around her lilac eyes weren’t born of charcoal black eyeshadow, but of long nights and a lack of proper rest. Jaskier was almost flattered that Yennefer lost sleep over him. But the _why_ was more concerning than the _what_.

“Yes, it does work.” No, it didn’t. Not in the way that Yennefer had wanted. Not that she, or Geralt for that matter, told him the intended result. Whatever purpose the potion was supposed to serve had obviously failed. But whatever was in that foul contraption did a damn good job of knocking out that thing inside him, for a few hours at least. And if lying would get Yennefer back to her normal, bitchy self, purple eyeshadow and all, he would lie until his face turned blue. “It is supposed to be for pain, right? Because ever since I took it, besides the first minute of complete and utter agony, I haven’t felt anything since. It makes a damn good painkiller, if my word’s anything to go by,”

Yennefer rolled her eyes, but stood and ruffled through her satchel, pulling out the ingredients one by one. Some roots, flowers, mushrooms. Jaskier honestly had no idea what strange flora Yennefer kept in her pouch, but one flower, in particular, stood out to him. Violet, strikingly purple, like Yen’s eyes, but more so. Dangerous. Poisonous, with soft petals curling in towards itself. The creature inside him growled at the sight of the flower. She placed all the strange roots, leaves, and flowers in a mortar and ground the ingredients together until they formed a paste. Her movements were slow and methodical, the passion, the thrill, the chaos of magic gone. That was worse than waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, blood boiling beneath the skin, bile creeping up the throat.

Yennefer poured water into the paste, combining them into something drinkable, then tipped the pale mixture into a small glass vial. “Here, if you’re so eager.”  
Right before Jaskier was going to knock the vial back, the sound of knuckles on wood came from the doorway. Yennefer and Jaskier turned to see who was brave enough to disturb them. Sure enough, standing in the doorway was Geralt, shabby as ever. Not that Jaskier could judge. He was wearing the same clothes he was attacked in, though, freshly washed and kindly sewn by the innkeeper.

Jaskier didn’t miss the way Geralt’s eyes lingered on him. And Jaskier definitely didn’t miss the daggers Yennefer threw at Geralt with her own eyes.

“You.” She jabbed a finger at Jaskier who then threw his hands up in surrender. “Drink. And don’t do . . . anything stupid to yourself. And you.” She glared at Geralt. “We need to talk.” She stormed out the door, inky black hair a hurricane of its own.

Jaskier drew a finger across his throat while staring intently at Geralt.

“Hmm.” Geralt said, knowingly, before following Yennefer to another room.

Evidently, ‘we need to talk’ was code for ‘we’re going to scream at each other for everyone in the inn to hear.’

Jaskier settled himself next to the diamond-paned window and leaned across the bed to blow out the flickering candle. The moon provided more than enough light, not that Jaskier needed it. His plans for the night included drinking the world’s worst potion, trying not to puke his guts all over the floor, and maybe sleeping for once, if the creature would allow it.

Apparently, his plans also included listening to the most chaotic couple in existence scream at each other on the other side of the wall. Or, ex-couple. Jaskier had no idea. While his neck still burned from Geralt’s touch, skin flaring hot at the memory of the hot bath, his heart ached at the thought of Yennefer. Obviously, Geralt loved her. And Jaskier wasn't about to be the third wheel in their relationship. So he tried to banish the perverted fantasies of bathing and skin and golden eyes from his mind, but his heart, among other things, pulsed at the thought of Geralt’s calloused fingers and biting mouth.  
In his defense, Jaskier did try to smooth things out between them, maybe apologize, explain himself, clear the air. But since that night, they never had a proper moment alone. Almost like Geralt was avoiding him.

Jaskier quickly remembered nearly fainting in the tub and decided, no, he would not bring anything up. Fainting in a hot and heavy situation was definitely not sexy, Jaskier thought to himself as he plugged his nose and threw down the nasty fucking liquid. Live and let die, so to speak. He leaned against the wall, fire burning his throat, lungs, belly. The creature beneath his skin screamed.

The moon screamed.

Yennefer screamed.

Jaskier though could smell her anger: fire and brimstone, hot and chaotic, the most chaos she had since the last time he had seen her, months and months ago. Geralt’s anger was the same, yet different, wilder: the fresh blood of a kill, iron, raw, heavy, sweat, salt. It made Jaskier hungry. Geralt yelled at Yennefer in his own way.

“It’s my decision.” Despite the wall separating them, Jaskier could see Geralt: eyes wild, lips curled, teeth bared.

“It’s not,” Yennefer hissed, voice muffled. “Maybe at one point, it was your call, but you lost that chance when you decided to act like a fucking coward. You couldn’t swallow your damn pride for one minute and now you’ve lost your chance,”

“He can’t know.”

“Of course he has to know! Did you honestly think it was all going to go away? If you just close your eyes and pretend nothing had happened, everything would wrap itself nicely with a neat little bow on top? Grow up. How long do you think he has until he finds out? How long, Geralt? I’ll tell you. Five days. He has five days until he finds out. And you - what? Want him to discover it on his own. Oh, what a shock that will be! One minute, he’s lying in bed the next -”

“Yennefer.” Geralt snarled. As Jaskier waited for Yennerfer’s response, he listened to the creature inside him pace. Back and forth.

Jaskier waited, listened, and watched the moon through the window.

“Either you tell him or I will.” Yennefer said.  
In a way, he already knew: the hunger he felt, the creature inside, the heightened senses. For a man that believed in fate, he sure as hell didn’t believe in coincidences. Jaskier knew. Although, it would be nice if Geralt could trust him for once. If Geralt could give Jaskier the chance to prove himself worthy of the witcher. He had five days to find out. The creature inside was silent.

Officially Jaskier got up after sunrise, but the truth is, he was up long before that. He was awake for most of the night. Or maybe he wasn’t. Jaskier had no concept of time and the line between sleep and consciousness was blurred; all he knew was the moon watching over him as the hours floated by. Maybe he slept between blinks. Maybe not. But there were three things Jaskier did know: the moon never left his window, all the scars on his body were gone, he dreamed of wolven howls. And he was hungry. Gods, was he hungry.  
When the pink rays of dawn shone through the glass windows, illuminating the room in morning gold, Jaskier was already wide awake, cleaned, and dressed in the only pair of clothes he had. A knock came from the door.

“Come in,” Jaskier said. A second later and Geralt entered, dressed in the only pair of clothes _he_ had: black leather armor with the all too familiar grimeyness and tight leather pants that clung _just right_.

“Were leaving.” Geralt said with his signature gruffness.

“The lovely innkeeper is sick of us already? Shame, I was just beginning to grow on her.”

“Yes, like mold.”

“Wow, you’re awfully chipper this morning.” Jaskier shimmied off the bed and stole a loaf of day-old bread from the nightstand. The golden crust crumbled at the slightest touch and the dough stuck to his gums, but overall the bread was a solid okay. He spoke thickly while chewing, “Excited to leave this place? The smell of cow manure too much for your sensitive witcher nose?”

“After smelling you every day? I could handle anything.”

“Ouch, Geralt. That one stung a bit. Well, I suppose I’m ready, although I don’t have much coin to pay the innkeeper. Do you think she’ll take a nice back rub as payment?”

“Forget it.”

Jaskier choked down the loaf, gagging a bit when it touched the back of his throat. “Forget what? The back rub? No, you’re probably right. A working woman like herself would more likely enjoy a foot or calf massage. Something along the lines of. . . lower body . . . rub,”

Geralt ‘hm’ ed as he watched Jaskier attempt to scarf down a second loaf. “You don’t need to pay. It’s already covered.” Then he turned and left the room, leaving Jaskier scrambling to shove the rest of the bread into his mouth and scurry behind. Jaskier waved goodbye to the barmaid, who was going at the floor aggressively with a wicker broom and, as she looked up to stare at Jaskier, the hard lines circling her mouth tightened. She did not wave back.

He stepped out of the inn and into the warmth of the mid-morning sun. Around him, townsfolk were hustling and bustling, doing their townsfolky things. Despite the large crowds of people, they each granted Geralt a wide berth. He was a strange sight indeed, leaning against the hitching post, eating an apple, arms crossed, face grumpy, Roach nibbling at his hair. Any townsperson that spared him a passing glance immediately scurried away at the sight of the witcher’s frown. With the sharp daggers of his teeth, Geralt peeled away a ribbon of red apple skin and with a swipe of his tongue, he licked the juice off his lips. Jaskier found it all very fascinating.

“I’m sure if you smiled more, the poor provincial townsfolk wouldn’t run away screaming all the time,” Jaskier said while giving Roach a scratch behind the ear. She tolerated Jaskier for a moment before whipping him with her tail.

“I don’t care what they think of me.” Reigns in hand, Geralt lead Roach away from the hitching post and the trio followed the main road through the town.

“Oh, sure. You say that now, but when these villagers have some obscure beast in need of killing, their opinion of you might be important,”

Geralt ‘hm’ ed. They walked through town with minimal issues. No slurs, no pitchforks, no mobs. It was all very unusual. Jaskier talked about meaningless things that kept the mood light and Geralt assumed his role as the annoyed witcher who only humored his tag along’s antics. Once they reached the edge of town, where the road split into two, did the mood shift.

“Here,” he pointed to the road to the left, “this will lead you to Vaelyn. It’s a half-day walk. Yennefer will meet you there.” Geralt tossed Jaskier a waterskin.

Jaskier held the water skin in his hands. Something stirred inside him. “You’re leaving, again.” It was not a question because Jaskier knew the answer. “Despite everything you’re going to leave me. Again.” he looked to the forest. “I thought things were different - I thought that things have changed between us.”

“Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed!” Frantic. He felt frantic. As if he needed to say everything all at once. He needed Geralt to listen to him. “I know you don’t want to talk about what happened in the baths, but we need to talk about it,”

“What do you mean?” Geralt must have accidentally yanked on the reins because Roach tossed her head at him, annoyed.

“I - what - you know damn well what I mean.” he shoved a finger at Geralt’s chest. The creature inside him snarled. “The reason you’ve been avoiding me this past week. That night - in the bath. Everything was fine and well and we were talking - _we were talking_! We haven’t talked in months since - since,”

“Jaskier -”

“No, you lost your chance to talk. You don’t get to say anything until I’m finished. I mean - you always tell me how annoying I am, how your life would be so much better without me, you hide things from me then you turn around and - and what? Try to kiss me? There are so many things wrong with that! Like - like - like Yennefer! You love her! You two were tied by fate or something and now you want to throw that all away? For what? For me?”

“Jaskier -” Geralt warned.

Jaskier powered on. “I know - but I need to tell you - it was - I felt it! There was something there that night - something between us. You were different and I know you felt something - maybe not romantic but there was something deeper between us, I could smell it on you. It was like -”

Geralt’s eyes flashed at that. “Shut up.” he snarled, teeth glinting in the sunlight. “It was a mistake. All of it. Do not mention it again.”

That hurt, worse than being ripped apart by a wolf. It cut like a knife below his ribs. The bite on his side throbbed. “Saving me was a mistake.”.

Geralt’s mouth snapped shut. His face was pinched, eyebrows furrowed, but he did not disagree. Jaskier stared at the ground, head a jumbled mess, eyes stinging with unshed tears, fears confirmed. Geralt turned and led Roach down the path that twisted to the right.

“Wait!” Jaskier called. He stood apart from the witcher, feet planted on the path that would lead to a different fate; one away from Geralt. “I know.” Geralt studied him, yellow eyes like small suns, burning into Jaskier’s own eyes. “Maybe not the specifics, but I know something is wrong - inside me. And you know it, too. Yen knows it. But you’re not telling me!” he swallowed the lump in his throat. The parasite paced restlessly inside his stomach. “I have a right to know. So just tell me, Geralt, I’ll find out eventually.”

For a moment, the world held its breath. For a moment, Jaskier feared Geralt would leave without another word. For a moment, Geralt looked as if he thought the same. “Lycanthropy,” he said at last. “You were bitten by a werewolf.”

The revelation was not as shocking as it could have been and, in a way, he already knew. Jaskier sighed, dug his fingers into the flesh of his palm, and looked at the moonless sky. “I thought as much,”

Geralt blinked. “You knew.” Although presented as a question, Geralt demanded an answer.

“As much as you like to believe, I’m not stupid. And you can’t keep a secret to save your life. All that dancing around me, treating me like I’m some child and not an adult, capable of making my own decisions.” Jaskier was angry. Actually angry. He snarled at Geralt. “You treat me like I’m some burden but refuse to let me take responsibility for myself! And now, I finally have a chance to survive on my own, to leave, _as you wanted_ , and now you want to - to hide that from me.”

“You want to be a monster?” Geralt growled. “Some beast shunned by the world? Cast out at every turn? To kill? To be hunted?”

“I want to be able to protect myself!”

“There are other ways to -”

“What ways?” Jaskier cried out. “I can’t fight, I have no magic, my only source of protection leaves me every chance he gets. What do you want me to do? Sing people to death?” he was crying and the creature inside him was howling. “I have no one back home. You’re all I have.” Jaskier sucked in a breath.

The whispering trees were silent, twittering birds hushed, even the creature pacing deep inside Jaskier sat and listened.

“Find Yennefer.” Geralt said, voice cold as ice. “She’ll watch you until the full moon.” With that, he braced his foot in the stirrup, mounted Roach, and trotted down the dirt road. Jaskier watched until Geralt was a small dot, disappearing through the forest. Jaskier waited a bit longer, just in case Geralt changed his mind. He hoped Geralt would change his mind.

By the time the sun reached its midday point in the sky, Jaskier was sick of waiting. He stood, brushed the dirt from his trousers and took the road that would lead him to the town of Vaelyn and away from Geralt.

After two hours of walking, his feet were covered in blisters and aching worse than a virgin the day after her wedding. He stumbled along the worn road, hoping for a benevolent traveler who would offer him a ride, some food, and if he was truly lucky, some wine. But the only kindly traveler Jaskier saw was the mother of six, with no room for him in her wagon, no food, and definitely no wine. He waved her away with a smile and continued on his journey. There were no more kindly travelers after that.

Jaskier spent the rest of the walk mulling over recent revelations. Lycanthropy. Of all things, why lycanthropy? Why couldn’t he have been cursed with youth? Everlasting beauty? To serve a beautiful succubus for the rest of his life? Instead, Jaskier was bitten by a werewolf, a hellish creature who ravaged towns, ate people, and smelled like wet dog all the time.

Maybe he would get lucky, after all, the chances of actually turning into a lycanthrope were laughably slim. Maybe the gods were playing a cruel trick and wanted to scare Jaskier a bit. He silently promised to never whore and wine again.

But even if it was a cruel trick and the gods were committed to tormenting Jaskier, the creature inside - the wolf inside - proved otherwise. Yennefer said he had five days. Five days until the full moon, likely. The only option was to wait and pray.

The night was as black as tar and devoid of stars by the time Jaskier reached the village of Vaelyn. Sweat had soaked through his shirt causing it to cling to his back, underarms, and unmentionables. Mud stained his trouser cuffs and the inner thighs were fraying. Worst of all, Jaskier wore out the soles of his favorite pair of boots. Needless to say, he wasn’t very happy when arriving in town.  
He wandered around the village, peeking through shop windows, inspecting the merchandise, seeing the steep prices, and considered taking up petty thievery as a hobby. Eventually, he stumbled upon a guard, leaning against a pillar, presumably asleep.

“Excuse me,” he called to the guard. “You haven’t seen a severe-looking sorceress; black hair, purple eyes, magic?”

The guard’s eyes snapped open and he lurched awake, giving Jaskier a nice, friendly glare. “Try the Silver Wolf Pub,” he grumbled. “I’ve heard talk of a strange woman lurkin’ about that fits that description,” the guard pointed Jaskier to the other side of town where the inn was likely located before dismissing Jaskier with a grunt and settling down, drifting back to sleep.  
The promise of warm beer almost outweighed the dread of the upcoming conversation. Oh hello, Yennefer. Nice to see you. I hope your journey went well. I know that there’s a chance that I might be a werewolf. How’s the beer?

By the time Jaskier thought up a good opening line to the upcoming awkward conversation, he found himself standing directly in front of the pub doors. Chattering of townsfolk and clanging of silver tankards came from inside. The swinging sign above the door read Silver Wolf. He didn’t miss the irony of the name.

“You going in or what?” a woman snapped from behind Jaskier. He leapt out of her way with a ‘sorry, go ahead, just getting some air, beautiful night.’ He was met with a stormy glare. Mustering his courage, Jaskier went inside. Hot air and the smell of beer hit Jaskier like that husband who had found him in bed with his wife. A good left hook that man had. The heavy taste of alcohol and of someone who hasn’t bathed in a few months lay heavy upon his tongue. He scrunched his nose in semi-disgust and scanned the room for a certain sorceress. Jaskier found Yennefer in the corner of the pub, nursing an ale and fighting off the unwanted advances of drunken men.

He slid into the empty seat next to her and took a swig of her beer.

“Bitch,” she hissed and snatched the tankard back. He grinned and wiped away the foam mustache off his upper lip.

“Is Geralt not with you?” she asked, scanning the room behind him.

“No, he isn’t. We - uh. Split up. He had witcher business to attend,”

Yennefer shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Let me guess, he sent you on your way without so much as a reason or a goodbye. Just a -” she deepened her voice, “sorry but I’m too emotionally constipated to have an actual conversation. I’m just going to leave and pretend everything’s okay between us. He did - tell you. Right? Maybe not a full conversation . . . but a word or two . . . something, at least?”

Jaskier leaned back in the chair and looked at the ceiling. The wooden beams groaned every time the door was yanked open or slammed shut or the rowdy activities on the floor above got a little too wild. Jaskier closed his eyes, drowning out the laughter, the shouts, the squeals. He nodded.

“Sorry.” She flagged down the bartender and motioned for two more ales. “For what it's worth, the chances of you actually becoming a werewolf are next to none,”

“Quiet! Don’t say it so loud,” Jaskier hissed. “Do you want the entire tavern to hear?” Yennefer rolled her eyes but remained silent when the bartender placed two ales in front of them. She tossed him a few coins and took a deep swig of her drink. Jaskier did the same.

“Anyway,” Yennefer said, licking the foam from her lips. “I gave you quite a lot of wolfsbane. That should help, somewhat.” she flicked him. “And I know when I’m being lied to. ‘Painkiller’ my ass.”

They spent the next few hours drinking away their troubles and lamenting over too-bitter ale, over-priced-inn-rooms, and grumpy witchers until the night was long and they were thoroughly drunk.

“I think -” Yennefer smothered a hiccup with her palm. “I think it’s time for us to retire for the night. I have a room. You can sleep on the floor,” She scooted back her chair and stumbled through the tavern, waving the other drunkards away like they were pesky flies.

“Wonderful,” Jaskier said while following up the tavern stairs to the second floor. “In my experience, sleeping on the hard ground does wonders for your back. It really . . . realigns the - the bones,”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Pulling a key from some hidden pocket inside her sleeve, Yennefer inserted it into the lock and opened the door to their room for the night. True to her word, Yennefer made Jaskier sleep on the floor, despite the queen-sized bed in the middle of the room. She tossed a few pillows and fur blankets to him but otherwise made no further attempts to make Jaskier comfortable.

“You do remember that I was attacked and horribly disfigured by a rabid werewolf? I could have . . . internal bleeding. Or fragile bones. Maybe sleeping on the floor isn’t the best thing for me right now. Maybe I should have the bed, just in case,”

Yennefer threw another pillow at him. “You’ll live,” she said before pulling the covers up to her chin and falling fast asleep.

Jaskier was not granted the same luxury. He closed his eyes. Tossed and turned. Slept for a few minutes. Woke up to piss. Went back to his heap of blankets on the floor. Burped up beer. Closed his eyes. Tossed and turned. Rinse and repeat. Eventually, Jaskier gave up sleep and, with the warmest blanket in the pile wrapped around his shoulders, curled under the glass-paned window.

It was hidden behind silver clouds, masked in the inky black of the night sky, but it was always there. The wolf knew it, tasted it. It was like the comfort of sleep, or the chill of spring water, or the release of a howl. The moon sang and the wolf listened. The night called to it, singing as if it were a child and the darkness its mother, coaxing the hidden depths of its mind to crawl out from the shadows. With every breath, its blood howled. The bard stirred in his slumber. The wolf could taste midnight upon its tongue. Yennefer was wrong. Jaskier didn’t have five days.

The wolf was already awake.


	4. Awake at last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this chapter has scenes of body horror. Not too bad, but it's there.  
> Also, the next chapter will definitely earn that explicit rating 😉

The wolf wanted out. He clawed and shredded and tore at his host’s body, lacerated the walls of his flesh prison, rupturing the skin. Light, hot and blinding, shone through the cracks of the wolf’s prison walls, leading the way to freedom. He could taste the midnight sky, he could lap up the milky glow of the full moon. The wolf was so close to freedom he could taste it.

But the bard fought back. He sobbed and trembled and shoved the wolf back down in his prison, snuffing out the light. The bard fought, but the wolf was stronger. 

Shrieks of agony echoed off the inn walls as Jaskier’s body was no longer his own. It twisted into something monstrous. Bones snapped and stretched as they grew beyond what was humanly possible, splitting his fragile human skin until the milky white bones were visible in the candlelight. His dexterous fingers, that would strum across his lute masterfully crafting a song, twisted and curled into wolf-like hands, pushing his blunt fingernails out of their sockets to make room for knife-like claws. His human teeth fell from his gums onto the floor and, amidst the blood and gore of his mouth, a set of canine teeth peeled back his red, red gums and pushed through. 

All the while, Jaskier screamed and screamed, as his spine snapped, muscles tore, nails split. He writhed on the floor in a pool of his own blood and gore.

Everything was too much at once. Copper flooded his nostrils, making his head spin. Screams from downstairs shattered his eardrums. Splinters from the wooden floorboards tore his fingers apart as he dug his nails into the boards and shredded them.

Jaskier curled into a ball and howled.

A moment passed.

The wolf stretched out his sore limbs, arched his back, and flexed his paws. He lifted his snout, twitched his ears, and inhaled. There was someone else in the room. The wolf turned his blue eyes to the corner of the room to see a woman standing, back pressed against the door, the exit, where great poundings and shouts came.

The woman’s hair was black as night, eyes raging like a violet storm, and in her hands, she held dancing orange flames. The wolf snarled at her, but from deep within the wolf came a small cry of anguish. The wolf dismissed it without another thought.  _ The bard couldn’t do anything now, it was too late. _ He lunged. 

Fire, hot and burning, slashed in a golden arch across the wolf’s chest, singeing his fur down to the pink skin beneath. The wolf screamed, tearing at his burning flesh.

“Jaskier!” the human woman cried out. “This isn’t you!” 

The wolf shrieked at her and stood up on his hind legs, ears brushing the high ceiling of the tiny room, looming over the woman, blocking out the light of the moon. Drool, thick and pearly, dribbled from his mouth. He was starving.

The human raised her hands, flames curling around her fingertips. “You're an idiotic bard who always sticks his nose into trouble. But you’re not a monster! Wake up!”

With a powerful swipe of his paw, the wolf struck the woman hard enough to knock her off her feet. She flew through the air and landed in a heap by the bed. Using the force of his hind legs, he leapt at the woman and sunk his teeth into the meat of her forearm, ripping into her skin and scraping the bone beneath the flesh. Shrieks of pain followed, cutting into the wolf’s ears, burning worse than the fire at his chest. Releasing the woman’s arm, the wolf went for her throat instead, intending to silence the woman’s screams forever. 

Fire erupted from her hands, red hot, burning the fur from the wolf’s skull and melting the skin from its nose. He threw himself away from the woman, howling and clawing at his face, trying to put out the fire. Smoke from the burning fur blinded the wolf, causing him to run into walls, searching for the exit. No meal is worth that much hassle.

“Get back!” the woman screamed. The wolf swiveled his head in the direction of her voice. “Get back! Don’t hurt him!” With the damage caused by the fire and smoke, the wolf’s nose was useless, but its ears were sharp and alert. From across the room, the wolf could hear the thud of multiple footsteps running upstairs, the laborious breathing of other humans, and the loud  _ shink  _ of a loaded crossbow. “Don’t!” the woman screamed again. “Don’t hurt him.”   
Too late.

Before the wolf could even move, piercing hot pain erupted into the wolf’s neck, burning worse than the flames, digging deep into his skin. The wolf tossed back his head, eyes wide, and screamed. Another arrow pierced his exposed stomach with enough force to topple him backward. Scrambling to his feet, the wolf faced his attacker.

Through a haze of smoke and tears, the wolf saw a man, crossbow clutched tight to his chest, arrows, silver-tipped, sharp as sin, glinting in his balled fist. 

Cocking his head, the wolf sized the man up, deciding if his death should be quick or if the wolf should tear the man apart, one limb at a time. 

“Die, werewolf,” the man snarled as he let loose another arrow. The wolf rolled aside and the arrow missed, shattering the window into thousands of glass shards that scattered across the floor.

Slow and painful, then. The wolf lunged.

“Jaskier, no!” the woman shouted and raised her hands. In the center of the room, a peculiar storm raged; it hung mid-air, spinning in a circle like a dog chasing its tail. The wolf could not see what lurked behind the spiral but the fur on his scruff warned him not to find out. A gasp came from the man behind him, but the wolf was unable to turn on him, for, in an instant, the spiral swallowed the wolf whole.

He was shocked to discover he was no longer confined in the small inn, instead, finding himself sprawled on the ground in the town square, nose pressed against the gravel road. Somewhere in the chaos, the arrow shaft had snapped off, leaving the head embedded in his neck. The pain was a sharp ache, but no worse than the burns on his snout and chest, so the wolf paid little attention to his newly acquired injuries. Beside him, the woman trembled on her knees, clutching her bleeding arm and gasping for breath. Saliva dripped from his mouth from the smell of the hot blood running down her arm. The wolf licked his lips and stood on all fours. 

The woman turned her head towards him, mouth pinched in pain. “Jaskier. Go. Run.” she panted between each word as if each breath was agony. The wolf did not heed her warning.

Gravel crunched beneath his paws as he approached the helpless woman, licking his teeth and flicking his ears. Screams surrounded the wolf, from other helpless villagers no doubt, but the wolf paid them no mind, besides, their time would come soon enough. The wolf’s hunger could not be sated by one meal; it would feast on every man, woman, and child it found. But for now, this woman would be a perfect appetizer. 

“No, no, no. Jaskier. Don’t do this. You’re better than this. Don’t be the monster. Save yourself. Leave,” 

The wolf snarled, silencing the woman’s prattle. Inside him came a frail cry. He silenced that, too. As he approached, the woman scurried backward, still on the ground, injured hand cradled to her chest. The wolf scoffed at such patheticness. Where was the bravery of before? The angry flames? The chaos? Instead, the wolf faced a meek child. He bared his teeth.

Smoke was on the wind. The wolf lifted its head away from the human woman and, through teary eyes, the wolf could see the villagers, a hundred or so, forming a large half-circle around him, wielding their blazing torches like weapons, cornering him. Some clutched butcher knives, some sewing scissors, some nothing at all. But they all stood to face him.

“Get up, sorceress, quick!” a woman called. The wolf’s ear flicked at the strange word.  _ Sorceress.  _

The woman stumbled to her feet and turned her back to the wolf, facing the mob. The wolf twitched its tail in surprise. The human would purposely turn her back to him? She was braver than he had thought. Or maybe just stupid. 

“Please,” she said to the crowd, voice steady, eyes hard. “I know him. He’s a good man and he doesn’t deserve this,”

The burns on its face throbbed and the wolf thought how easy it would be to attack the woman from behind. The cry inside grew louder.

“It’s a monster. Killing it would be doing your friend a kindness,” another man said, torch in his hand blazing brighter than the moon. The wolf bared his teeth. Despite the woman’s begging, the mob circled in closer, trapping the wolf against the bakery, silver weapons glinting menacingly.  _ Clank! _ Another arrow embedded itself into the wolf’s thigh. He howled and snapped its jaws at the mob. The woman turned to the wolf, eyes blazing from the fire burning in her hands.

“Jaskier! Run!” The voice inside pleaded.

This time, the wolf listened. Lunging with the power of his hind legs, the wolf ran through the mob, breaking the circle, and bounding off into the forest.

The wolf ran for what felt like hours, paws pounding into the soft earth, dodging trees, bounding over fallen logs, splashing through streams. He ran until his lungs were full of fire. He ran until his wounds were pouring blood. He ran until the moon shifted in the night sky. Even then, he ran some more. The wolf pushed himself farther and farther away from the village until his legs collapsed and the wolf went sprawling, head first, onto the ground. He laid there for a while, chest heaving in an attempt to quell the fire in his lungs. A soft breeze rustled the trees and cooled his burning snout. With his damaged nose, the wolf tried to breathe in the smells of the forest. But the earthy scent of soil, the crisp mountain breeze, the musk of a deer was all lost to him. The wind danced through the trees and the wolf could smell none of it, so he closed his eyes and slept.

A  _ snap _ .

Tearing open his foggy eyes, the wolf surveyed the area, ears twitching at every slightest sound.  _ Snap _ . The wolf leapt to his feet, lips pulled back over his teeth. There was a voice, faint, but present, quiet enough to follow. Crouching low, minding his injured thigh, the wolf stalked the creature further into the forest. He moved silently after his new prey. 

“Easy, Roach, it’s just an oat treat,” the creature said. Moving through the thicket, and peering between the trees, the wolf was finally able to see its prey. Standing in the middle of a small clearing next to a pitched tent, stood a man who was currently brushing the mane of a sorrel horse. But he was not any man. White hair. Big swords. Golden eyes. A witcher. His heart stopped. 

At that moment, the wolf realized he had two choices: turn away now, leave and live to see another day, or attack the witcher and avenge all the other monsters that the witcher deemed unworthy of life. 

The wolf chose vengeance. 

Crashing through the forest, the wolf bounded into the clearing and leapt onto the man’s back, shoving him to the ground. The horse reared and struck the wolf with a powerful hoof. He scurried back, snapping his jaws. The arrowhead dug deeper into his flesh.

“Fuck,” the witcher snarled while scrambling to his feet. In an instant, his sword was drawn and a potion between his lips. He threw the potion to the ground and faced the wolf.

The witcher’s eyes were blacker than ink, sharp and devilish, teeth white and glinting in the light of the moon. The wolf knew a beast when it saw one, and this witcher was the king of them all.

His nostrils flared, scenting the wolf. Then, the most peculiar thing happened: the witcher lowered his sword. He blinked at the wolf, inhaling deeply and exhaling white puffs of frozen air.

“Jaskier,” the witcher said, voice catching on the all-too-familiar name. The wolf snorted. Whoever this ‘Jaskier’ was, the wolf was definitely  _ not  _ him _.  _ He bared his teeth at the witcher, but the man would not raise his sword again. 

“Jaskier,” the witcher said again. The wolf snarled, bleeding, in pain, and now very annoyed. “Jaskier. You’re hurt,” The wolf paused and looked at his stomach. Two arrows protruded from his stomach, one from his neck, one from his thigh, so yes, it wasn’t a stretch to say he was hurt. “I can help you,” the witcher said, approaching slowly, one arm extended towards the wolf, the other sheathing his sword. His blood raged hot. The wolf didn’t want this beast-killer’s help.

Ears flat against his head, teeth bared, the wolf launched himself at the witcher, jaw snapping tight on whatever body part he could. Thick leather blocked his teeth from sinking into the witcher’s arm, but the wolf was not so easily deterred. With a quick snap of his head, he threw the witcher against the tree, spooking his horse away with a snarl. 

The witcher groaned in pain. “Roach. Go.”   
With a kick of her hind hooves, the horse bolted off into the forest. Out of the corner of his eye, the wolf watched the horse flee through the forest, kicking up moss and twigs as it dodged tall trees. Snorting at the horse’s fear, the wolf turned its attention back to the witcher, who, despite the wolf’s turned head and vulnerable state, did not attack or even raise his sword. He did not move at all. Then, to the wolf’s surprise, the witcher dropped his steel weapon into the dirt. Weaponless, the witcher faced the wolf, fear absent from his black eyes.  _ Be afraid, _ the wolf snarled, but the witcher paid no heed and slowly approached the wolf, hands extended, palms facing the silver moon.

It was the wolf’s turn to be afraid.  _ What was the witcher planning? Was this some surprise attack? Distract him with a false sense of security and stab him when he least expects it. No.  _ The wolf reared upon his hind legs and screamed at the witcher. Who - chuckled? Yes, the witcher was indeed laughing at the wolf. This was unacceptable. With the weight of his entire body, the wolf slammed his front paws onto the witcher's chest, knocking him over, and pinning him to the ground. With his teeth merely inches away from the witcher’s face, the wolf was in charge now.

_ Laugh, witcher, if you still think this is funny.  _

Once again, the witcher surprised the wolf by raising his arm and running his fingers through the wolf’s tawny brown fur.

“Jaskier,” the witcher said. “If you can hear me, know, it will all be over soon,” 

The voice from inside the wolf cried.

Fury coursed through the wolf’s veins and, enraged at the witcher and the creature inside him, it sunk its teeth into the witcher’s arm, tearing through the leather armor and gouging the skin with its sharp teeth. The witcher hissed through his teeth but did not fight back. He was not afraid. Tearing his head away from the witcher’s arm, the wolf ripped into the junction of the witcher’s neck where it met the shoulder. The flesh gave no resistance. Blood filled the wolf’s mouth and soaked the fine fur around its muzzle. As his muzzled pulled back, his burnt fleshed ached something fierce. Despite the torn skin and surely broken bones, the witcher would not yield to his sure demise. His face was pinched in pain but no whimper left his mouth. Although the wolf was not easily discouraged, he was left somewhat unsure. The voice inside him was screaming. The wolf snarled at it. Still pinning the witcher to the forest floor, the wolf leaned in close, so close that his hot breath stung the witcher’s black eyes.  _ Fear me, beast-killer. _

The witcher smiled, all silver teeth. “Look up,”

The wolf looked through the trees to the sky. Rays of dawn streaked across the sky with heavy strokes of pinks, golds, blues, and yellows. Morning light shone through the trees, bathing the trees in a golden glow and illuminating the sword abandoned on the forest floor in too-bright light. Though the wolf frantically searched, he could not find the moon.

The witcher raised his bloody, broken arm to tug on the wolf’s ear. “Get out of my friend.”   
Heat burst through the wolf chest, burning worse than the sorceress’s fire, worst that any pain the wolf had ever felt, stretching through its body until the wolf toppled backward of the witcher, writhing in agony. Teeth, sharper than any human blade, fell from his mouth by the dozen. Claws, stronger than steel, pushed out of the wolf’s paws, tearing through the tender skin, bloodying the flesh. The wolf opened its mouth, but no sound came out. 

It burned.

Jaskier woke from the forest in his dreams and found himself in another. 

He opened his mouth and screamed, clawing at his burnt and bloodied human skin with long fingers and blunt fingernails, writhing on the forest floor in agony, convinced he was covered in flames.

“Jaskier!” the witcher called, cool fingers pressing Jaskier into the ground and holding him there until long moments passed and the pain faded from his body. Peeling open his eyes, unaware that they were even closed, Jaskier looked at Geralt, bathed in golden sunlight, greasy, silver hair illuminated by the morning gold and thought to himself  _ I finally did it, I finally got myself killed,  _ before closing his eyes and embracing death.

Jaskier realized that he might have a habit of passing out at the worst times.

He opened his eyes to the night sky and found himself staring at the moon, or a sliver of it, the rest hidden by dark clouds.

“Fuck,” he hissed as he sat up, fur blanket falling forward, revealing bandages soaked with blood, wrapped around his chest.

“You’re awake.” Jaskier blinked towards the direction of the voice, clearing the sleep and gunk from his eyes. A few feet away crackled a fire- the kind of fire a person makes when they know that they’re the biggest, baddest thing in the forest, and, judging by the fact that Geralt was still alive, he had every right to make a fire that size. Well, alive, but not unharmed. Through the dancing flames, Jaskier could see crimson-stained bandages wrapped loosely around Geralt’s forearm, careless, very much unlike Jaskier’s tight, precise wrappings. 

“What an astute observation,” he extended his hands towards the fire in hopes of dethawing his chilled fingers. He looked at Geralt, then again at the bandages. “Was that my doing?” He jerked his head towards the bloodied wrappings.

“No,” Geralt said at once. “It wasn’t you. It was the wolf, not you, Jaskier,” the way Geralt said his name, so tender and soft, made Jaskier’s heart race. 

“Oh, no. Of course it wasn’t me, only the thing I'll become at every full moon,” his voice cracked. Pathetic. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, the faint memory of a burn lingered in his mind.

The forest tightened around them, walls closing in, trapping them in together. Jaskier couldn’t breathe. Geralt said nothing.

“What happens to me, now? Lest you forget, your a witcher, Geralt, a beast killer. And I’m -”   
Geralt’s cold yellow eyes burned into Jaskier’s red-rimmed eyes.

“And I’m a monster.” He whispered. “What happens when you realize that you need to kill me?” 

Geralt said nothing, only stared into the orange flames. An owl hooted somewhere far off in the forest. Roach munched on a patch of grass at the edge of their small camp. Jaskier could hear it all, smell it, too. Before, when he was . . . human, the world used to be quiet. If he held his breath, there would be nothing but the most recent song he sang in his head. Now, the world was alive, more so than Jaskier had ever believed. Those without voices could speak: the trees called to him with old songs, rabbits whispered to each other beneath the thicket, even the very ground Jaskier tread upon ‘humm’ ed an ancient tune. If he held his breath, looked at the sky, and listened, he could hear the star sing. Heartbeats passed before Jaskier realized he was crying.

It started small, just the sting of unshed tears, something he could pass off as a reaction from the heat of the fire, then the tears ran down his face, something small enough that they could be flicked away. On the outside, he could pretend he had allergies, but inside Jaskier was shredded like a knife had peeled away his interior, leaving only misery. Within seconds, he was sobbing. Cradling himself in his arms. Rocking his body back and forth. Sobs tearing from his throat like he would never be happy again. Everything was too much. Everything was overwhelming and underwhelming. He could hear the cries of night critters, the scream of a nearby stream, the bang of Roach’s heart as she lifted her head to stare at him. But he needed more. But he needed less.

Jaskier couldn’t breathe. There was a hand closing around his windpipe, squeezing and squeezing until his lungs deflated into dust. His eyes were wide, flooding, boring deep into Geralt’s yellow, yellow eyes. His mouth moved, but Jaskier couldn’t hear him, only the shrieks of the stars.

“Breathe, Jaskier, breathe,” Geralt chanted, warm palms cupping his face, grounding him, stabilizing him. “Breathe,” he said and together they inhaled, slowly at first, as if Jaskier was a child who had a nightmare, then exhaled, faces so close, the tips of their noses brushed. Together, they breathed as one. In. Out. In. Out. Completely in sync, breathing as one until the tears dried off Jaskier’s face and the agony within dulled into a constant throb. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, thumbs catching the stray tears that fell from his eyes. “I’m sorry.” That was a fact. Geralt’s hair was silver. Geralt’s eyes were golden. Geralt was sorry. Jaskier didn’t expect more, didn’t need more. That was enough for him.

“I know,” he said before Geralt pressed his lips against his.

Nothing else needed to be said, at that point, words were useless. Geralt kissed Jaskier like the world was a desert, Jaskier was an oasis, and Geralt never tasted water before. Tears were kissed away by Geralt’s chapped lips, warming the tender skin below his eyes warm and causing Jaskier’s already flushed cheeks to redden even more, before gently pressing his mouth against Jaskier’s reddened lips. Although not Geralt’s intentions, the tender treatment made Jaskier cry even more. Upon seeing the fresh tears stream down Jaskier’s cheeks, Geralt pulled away and pressed his forehead tight against Jaskier’s forehead, eyes closed, mouth opened, sharing the same air. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said. 

They didn't fall asleep together, locked in each other's arms, despite how much Jaskier wanted that to be, instead, he was wrapped in the heavy fur blanket on a sleeping mat, next to the fire. Geralt sat inches away from Jaskier, swords within reach (on the off chance that something would like to tango with the witcher, although, if Jaskier couldn't take on the witcher, he seriously doubted anything else could) and eyes wide open. No words were spoken between them for there way nothing else to say. Nothing could ever really console Jaskier. Nothing could ever really console Geralt. They wallowed in their misery, both together and apart. The inches between Jaskier and Geralt felt like miles and Jaskier had no idea how to build a bridge between that canon. So he took a chance. Jaskier reached out his hand from the depths of the warm blanket, traced the tip of his fingers against the back of Geralt’s hand, and held his breath, waiting for acceptance, waiting for rejection. Geralt's eyelashes fluttered at the slightest touch and he did not pull away when Jaskier slowly linked their fingers together. 

Jaskier slept under the waning moon, wrapped in a warm blanket, fingers linked like an unbreakable chain with Geralt's, and it wasn't what he wanted, it wasn't what he imagined, but it was enough. It was enough. 

What the morning lacked in animosity it made up with awkward silence as Jaskier tried and failed to wear a pair of Geralt’s trousers (as his were destroyed beyond all recognition.) Needless to say, Geralt’s waist and ass were much larger than Jaskier’s, and, despite all efforts to the contrary, the waistline would immediately fall down Jaskier’s small hips and flat ass, landing in a heap on the forest floor. From the other side of camp, both Geralt and Roach snorted. Jaskier gave up. Holding the pants high above his waist in one hand, Jaskier marched over to Geralt, stole a leather tie from his tack, and marched back over to his place near the fire. Looping the leather tie around his waist, Jaskier folded the pants waistline over the tie, hiked the pants higher, and made a knot. _Hopefully,_ _my makeshift belt will last more than five minutes,_ he thought to himself.

Shoeless, shirtless, but not pantless, Jaskier was freezing. He wrapped himself in the wool blanket, resolved himself to the itchiness, and took to the task of putting out the flames, praying that he would catch himself on fire in the process.

As Jaskier smothered the fire, face red, avoiding Geralt’s gaze, who busied himself by packing up the bedrolls and storing them on Roach’s saddle, he realized that this was the end of the life Jaskier had known. He had traveled from town to town as a rogue bard for so long that he wasn’t sure how to do anything else. Go back to college? Jaskier shivered at the memories of the last time he was a student; his backside still ached from the lashed of his professor’s cane. Could he go back? Could he study at some pretentious college, reading literature written by old men who knew the ways of the word as much as some isolated chambermaid, studying maps of continents washed away by the sea centuries ago, writing essays on the exploits of ancient rulers who made no difference in the world with the power they possessed, learning things that don’t really matter? Jaskier had seen more of the world adventuring with Geralt than he had in the pages of dusty books. As he smothered the fire with mossy, wet grass, Jaskier realized he never had the choice to begin with. No sane school would ever take in a werewolf. He was an outcast, now. The thought had occurred to him before, but now, with the fading wounds on his body caused by all-too-human arrows, it rang true. For once in his life, Jaskier was totally, utterly, alone.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s warm hand curled around the base of his neck, bringing Jaskier back into his body, back to earth. “Come on. We have a ways to go until the next village. If we start now, we can make it by sunset,”

Jaskier let Geralt pull him to his feet, brush the soot off his borrowed pants, and lift him onto Roach’s back, who snorted at Jaskier as if to say  _ I’ll allow this for now, but I didn’t forget you trying to eat me.  _ Jaskier leaned forward to pat her neck as an apology, which Roach only  _ just _ tolerated, before bending her neck to nibble on his toes. Geralt followed suit, swinging his leg over Roach’s back, careful not to kick Jaskier in the face, and mounting up. 

Geralt was so close and Jaskier was very unsure where he should put his hands, letting them flop loosely by his side. This turned out to be a bad idea when, after Geralt clucked his tongue and Roach lurched into a jerky trot, Jaskier nearly flew off the back of the horse. He quickly threaded his arms around Geralt’s waist and held on to dear life. The rumble in Geralt’s chest notified Jaskier that the witcher found Jaskier’s near demise amusing. Good to know.

As they traveled through the forest, Roach weaving between trees and leaping over small boulders, searching for the main road, Jaskier pressed his face to Geralt’s back, inhaling the witcher’s wild scent, like dark earth and rainstorms, and at that moment Jaskier thought to himself,  _ everything might be okay. _


	5. Odd Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with my crazy updating schedule! I really love reading all your comments ❤❤❤  
> Heads up, there is definitely some nsfw content in this chapter

“I think we’re lost, Geralt,”   
“We’re not lost,”

“Really, Geralt, really? Are you willing to bet on that? Are you willing to bet  _ Roach  _ on that?” 

Geralt scoffed. Jaskier adjusted his new midnight blue doublet (latest fashion at court), thoroughly offended, and pointed at an innocent boulder sitting next to the trail. “Be prepared to lose your mount, witcher, because this is the third time we passed this boulder today. The third!” Geralt rolled his eyes. “How can you be so sure, bard?” 

“Well, you see, this boulder, in particular, has a very unique scent,” he gave a long, exaggerated sniff. “A poet such as myself could compare to the smell to boar musk with a hint of rabbit shit,”

Geralt pulled on the reigns, halting Roach’s movements. “Fuck,” he said.

“So we’re lost,”

“Fuck,” he said, again. Swiveling to dig through Roach’s saddlebags, Geralt pulled out a well-worn map that had likely seen better days. Standing on his tip-toes, Jaskier tried to peek at the map over Geralt’s gigantic thighs. No luck. Jaskier busied himself with the task of lookout, although, it was difficult to see anything through the thick clumps of trees. Eventually, Geralt packed up the map and clicked his tongue. Roach lurched into a brisk walk, leaving Jaskier to scramble to catch up.

“So, where are we?” 

Geralt 'hm'ed.

“You don’t know, huh. Well, shit, what if we just followed the sun . . . or something?” Geralt scoffed, again. “At least I’m coming up with solutions!”   
“Fine. Here’s one. Why don’t you use your nose to find the way out?”

Jaskier gasped. “And what’s that supposed to mean? It’s not my fault that I can smell your unwashed hair from a mile away! If you had better hygiene habits I wouldn’t have to complain so much! Fine, fine! Here look!” he sniffed the air. “See, nothing! I told - wait,” Jaskier inhaled, again, closing his eyes to the blazing sun above, and the dancing shadows cast by emerald leaves and the silver gleam of Geralt’s greasy hair. On the whispering wind came a strange smell. Not the smell of a deer, or the musk of a wolf, but something different, human? Jaskier opened his eyes and looked to Geralt, who was watching him with great interest and the slightest of smirks on his face. 

“Don’t - just - shut up,” Jaskier grumbled. “And help me up,” Geralt pulled Jaskier up onto Roach’s back, and with a press of his heels lead Roach in the forest, guided by Jaskier’s nose. Deeper and deeper into the forest they went, guided by the odd smells Jaskier picked up. While he was inexperienced with tracking, although not inexperienced with the hound dog joke Geralt  _ loved  _ to make, Jaskier was immensely proud of himself on how fast he picked up the scent. The wolf, temperamental as he was, had ignored Jaskier’s pleas for assistance ever since the last full moon, almost like the wolf had disappeared entirely. That was Jaskier’s first thought, that somehow he managed to cure himself by accident. Overjoyed and somewhat nervous, he had run over to Geralt to tell him the news, tripped on a stray log intended to burn in the campfire, fell face-first into the forest floor, split his head open on a sharp rock, and immediately healed within a minute. Jaskier distinctly remembered a wolfish scoff.

Although the silence was not unwelcome, Jaskier’s ass was saved several times by the wolf. Most notably when Jaskier was off in a strange town, thoroughly drunk, and upon, leaving the tavern, followed by a group of men. Whatever ill intentions they had, their plans were not executed that night when, from deep inside, the feeling of control had fled Jaskier. His body was no longer his own. He was helpless to the wolf’s influence as it coursed through his body, making him swivel to face the group of men. Controlled by a mind, not of his own, Jaskier bared his human teeth and crouched on all fours, staining his  _ other  _ new doublet. Terrified at the sight of the snarling bard, the men turned and fled back to the village.

Needless to say, Jaskier was pissed. Relieved. But pissed. He followed the road for a while, then cut off into the forest, until he reached where Geralt was camping. Geralt found the situation so  _ hilarious  _ that he nearly fell off a fallen log from laughing so hard. 

Ever since then, Jaskier never let him live that down.

But what he smelled now was different. Jaskier gasped. 

“Food!” he screeched in Geralt’s ears, who groaned in pain and whacked Jaskier’s knee. Roach breached the edge of the forest, where the trees ended and the rolling hills began, traveling as far as the eye could see. Smoke billowed in the distance, carried by small gusts of wind, and, if Jaskier squinted, he could just make out crimson tents flapping against the breeze. He pointed towards the tents and Jaskier watched as Geralt closed his eyes against the setting sun, inhaling. “Hmm,” he said and nodded. 

“Do you think they’ll share? I’m awfully hungry and at this point, if I don’t eat something soon, I’ll die. Really, Geralt! I’ll die of hunger,”

“We’re not stopping,”

Jaskier gasped. “What do you mean ‘we’re not stopping’?” Roach lurched into a trot, going the opposite direction of the tents. Geralt didn’t answer. “What if they’re nice travelers who want to share their food?”

“Or thieves who would love the chance to rob us blind,”

“ _ Or,  _ humble travelers with way too much food on their hands! Come on, Geralt, don’t tell me you’re going to pass up the chance of free food?” Geralt didn’t answer. “Fine,” Jaskier snapped. “Fine!” He swung his right leg over, making sure to kick Geralt in the head, lept off Roach, and made his way over to the definitely innocuous-looking tents. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt growled. A chill ran up Jaskier’s spine at the tone of Geralt’s voice, one not entirely unpleasant. With his head held high and hips swaying  _ just  _ so, Jaskier continued down the grassy slope, ignoring Geralt’s curses. In an instant, Jaskier could hear the thud of Geralt’s boots as he leapt off Roach, marching to catch up with Jaskier’s long stride, until, in a blink, Geralt was in front of him, eyes dark, hair windswept.

“Fine,” he growled.

“Oh, it’s quite alright, Geralt. You don’t have to join me, in fact, you can just continue on, looking for the nearest village while I enjoy a nice, hot meal for the night. We can meet up later, alright?” Jaskier bit his lip, smothering a grin, eyes trailing down Geralt’s chest to find the tunic unlaced and open. Scandalous. Geralt looked positively pissed. Until he . . . didn’t? Geralt cocked his head, nostrils flaring and smiled, all teeth. Subtly, he gave a swift tug to the hem of his shirt and the slit opened, exposing more of his chest. Jaskier’s eyes widened. Sure he’s seen the man naked before. Plenty of times. But some things never grow old and the flash of a well-groomed, muscular chest left Jaskier hot and bothered. Geralt cocked an eyebrow. That was the final straw; he would not be led astray by fleshy temptations. Jaskier shoved his finger against Geralt’s muscular chest and said, “hot meal,” before shoving Geralt aside and resuming his quest for actual food.

Geralt audibly groaned.

In the end, Jaskier won that battle because the next thing he knew, he was lifted like a rag doll and placed in the saddle. “You win,” Geralt said. 

By the time they reached the strange camp, the sun had already set low in the sky, golden streaks too weak to fight off the night creeping across the sky from the east. Glittering pale stars twinkled in the dark pockets of night. Everything would have been calm and ambient, if not for the loud growls from Jaskier’s stomach. He groaned and clutched his empty belly.

“Please have food,” he begged the gods. Geralt chuckled but quickly quieted upon approaching the nearest tent. There was ten total, Jaskier found after a quick count, all arranged in a circle facing each other. Shadows, cast from a nearby campfire, danced across the crimson tents like some strange ritual. Voices, loud and boisterous, mixed with the steady beat of a drum and trill of a flute shattered the silence of the would-be peaceful night. Wine, thick and syrupy, was carried by the night breeze. Best of all was the rich smell of seasoned meat, so tender and juicy that, without even laying eyes on the food, Jaskier’s mouth was heavy with saliva. 

Hungry and eager, Jaskier nearly marched headfirst into the camp, but a hand on his shoulder held him back.

“Wait,” Geralt said. He pushed Jaskier behind him and approached the camp slowly. Jaskier followed behind, weaving between the tents until the fellow travelers came into sight.

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. From the look on Geralt’s face, he wasn’t expecting it either. Halflings with curly hair on their heads and feet wearing bright clothes tossed even brighter pins into the air only to catch them at the last second, elves with limber limbs and sharp faces tumbled and leapt into the air, clever sylvans stomping their hooves in beat, while one pounded on the drum and the other played the flute. Jaskier clapped his hands together, delighted. And, as if some switch was flipped, the merriment came to a screeching halt. If Jaskier dropped a feather, he would be able to hear it. Geralt glared at him.

“Oh please, don’t stop on our accounts!” The sylvans tried to pack up their instruments without anyone noticing. Jaskier noticed.

“What’s going on?” a voice creaked from one of the tents. An elf, grey and hobbled with age, stood from a log next to the fire and approached Jaskier, eyes narrowed skeptically. Geralt pointedly glared at Jaskier. He ignored him.

“I am Orlo, leader of this band, and we don’t often get visitors in the middle of the night. And the ones we do get aren’t very friendly. So tell me, friends, what are two strangers doing sneaking upon us at a time like this?”

Jaskier didn’t miss the way Geralt shifted into a fighting stance and he definitely didn’t miss the dagger glinting in one of the halfling’s fist. “We mean you no harm, kindly sir! We’re just travelers looking for some food. No funny business, at all! I promise all we want is a bite of food. And,” Jaskier dramatically placed a hand over his heart “If we mean any harm to you kindly folk, may the gods strike us down where we stand.”

The elf stared at Jaskier then at Geralt, face shrouded by shadows. He looked over his shoulder to his companions, found some sort of answer in their silence, and turned back to Jaskier. In an instant quicker than a flash of lighting, a grin split the elf's face, erasing the shrewd, skeptical look, giving him the appearance of a much younger man. 

“Well, come on then, don’t loiter around the outskirts like some scolded child. Come! Join the fun!” Then to Jaskier’s shock, slapped Geralt on the shoulder, good-naturedly. And to Jaskier’s immense horror, Geralt  _ grinned back. _ With that, the party was revived in full swing. The old elf guided Jaskier and Geralt over to the fire, motioning them to sit with a flick of his wrist. As Jaskier perched on the log, he shot Geralt a smug look.

“See,” he whispered into Geralt’s ear. “What did I tell you?” Geralt opened his mouth to rebuttal, but whatever witty comeback so magnificent it would put all great poets to shame was immediately swallowed when a stout dwarf appeared before them, holding a moon-sized silver platter covered in enough food to feed an army; tender pork seasoned with green herbs and salty brine, roasted carrots and sliced radishes scattered about the tray, buttered loaves of bread with golden crusts. Jaskier stomach shrieked. 

They spent the rest of the evening by the fire, ravishing the food with a fervor. Jaskier moaned with each bite of seasoned meat that melted upon reaching his tongue. No more stringy rabbit with only the charcoal from the fire for seasoning. No more wild carrots pulled straight from the soil. And definitely, no more stale bread purchased two weeks prior. Soon, more of the strange travelers, approached Jaskier and Geralt, joining them near the large fire. Some asked questions, some just stared. Jaskier would have attempted conversation, if not for his mouth stuffed with food. Geralt, however, had no excuse for he had stopped eating a while ago. Eventually, the old elf returned. 

“How is the food?” he asked, sitting on a stump.   
“Eth goo!” Jaskier swallowed. “It’s good! The best we’ve eaten in weeks. We are extremely grateful for your hospitality,” 

The elf waved him away. “We never turn away potential guests.” Geralt snorted at that and Jaskier subtly kicked him when the old elf was not looking. “So,” Orlo said to Jaskier while also accepting a powdered treat from a young elf in bright clothing. Jaskier’s stomach twitched. “What brings the two of you to wander the countryside looking for food?”

“Oh! How rude of me,” Jaskier grinned at what he hoped was a charming smile. “I am a - uh - a poet. I wander from city to city, performing for lords and ladies and kings and queens from all over the Northern and Southern lands. Perhaps you’ve heard of Buttercup?” Geralt snorted into his goblet. “The Golden Tongued Poet?” Geralt snorted again. Jaskier kicked him. The elf gave a shake of his head, eyes widened in awe. 

“That is truly spectacular, oh sir poet. We sit in awe of your accomplishments,” the other members of the troupe nodded, some while smirking, some while rolling their eyes, others with their mouths hung open. A few of the younger members took to shoving each other towards Jaskier, a game of sorts. ‘Who can get the closest to the bard without him noticing.’ He noticed. 

“And what of you all?” Jaskier motioned to the rest of the camp. “Are you part of a - a circus troupe?” 

Orlo smiled. “We like to think of it as a circus family - but - yes. We - like you - travel from city to city performing for lords and ladies only for the meager reward of coin and the smile on a child’s face.” Someone laughed. Orlo’s eyes narrowed. “You told us about yourself, but what of him?” Orlo nodded at Geralt, who not so subtly growled. “You’re friend is awfully quiet over there,”

Jaskier clapped a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “This is my traveling companion, or - well, more of a bodyguard really, he’s horribly disfigured, a kick to the head from an angry mule, you know? Sad business.” 

Orlo smiled. “So not a witcher, then?”

Jaskier froze. Geralt rolled his eyes. “Horribly disfigured?” he said to Jaskier, who grinned sheepishly in response. “I’m a witcher. So what of it?”

Orlo sighed, all mirth draining from his face. Other members joined him, perching on logs, stretching out in the soft grass, or standing near the flames of the campfire. “We were robbed not too long ago, by a band of raiders -”

“I’m not in the human-killing business,”

The old elf’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Not killing! You see, they took something precious to us - a charm! It was given to us by an old witch. So long as we have it, we will never fall from a wire, never drop a pin, never break a bone,”

Geralt huffed. “A charm?” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier hissed. “We should help them!” The troupe members nodded their heads. Geralt stood from the log and pulled Jaskier away from the fire, pushing him behind one of the tents where the troupe could not hear them. 

“We have enough going on right now,” he hissed. “Unless you forgot?”   
Jaskier punched him, soft enough to be harmless but hard enough to be somewhat of a threat. “I didn't forget anything. It’s me who turns into a werewolf every full moon, and, unless  _ you _ forgot, we have no money and no food. They have both,” they glared at each other for a few long moments before Geralt sighed. 

“Fine,” he said. “But you stay with them until I get back.”

“What?” Jaskier hissed. “No way, I'm coming with you!”

“It's too dangerous!”

“That never stopped you before! Remember the dragon?”

“You're never going to let me live that down,”

Jaskier poked him in the ribs. “You were fine with letting me fight off a dragon. But now when I  _ actually have _ ways to defend myself, you tell me -” he deepened his voice comically, “ _ oh Jaskier, stay here it's too dangerous.” _

“And if you get hurt?” 

“I'll heal! Besides, I get hurt all the time! I fell off Roach last night, and you didn't say anything about it being too dangerous to ride a horse,”

Geralt looked away, shadows caster over his face, “That's not -”

“What then?” Trapped between the tent and Geralt, the air between them was too tight and too hot. He stared into the darkness of Geralt’s face hidden by shadows and understood. “You're not afraid for me. You're afraid  _ of  _ me. You're afraid that I'll mess up and hurt someone. Kill someone. You’re afraid I’ll  _ like _ killing, aren't you? That I'll like hurting people and that I'll become a monster just like you said I -” 

“Shut up.” Geralt growled. His hands were like warm embers as they cupped Jaskier's face, silencing his ramblings. “You're not a monster. and you won't ever be.” He brushed the pad of his thumbs beneath the frail skin under Jaskiers eyes. “I'm . . . frightened for you, not of you.” He looked in Jaskier’s eye. “I don't want to see you hurt again.”

Jaskier’s heart was a fluttering mess. 

“Anything else?” Geralt said, mouth only inches away. 

“So you’ll help them?”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips against Geralt’s, softly, like a kiss from a butterfly. It was strange, being able to kiss him whenever Jaskier wanted, but Jaskier couldn’t find it in himself to complain. Geralt, bathed in the shadows of the crimson tent, pressed himself closer to Jaskier, body hot and flush with the bard’s, mouth biting his swollen lips. Butterfly kisses exchanged for a hungry clash of teeth. 

Geralt pulled away first. “Tell them I’ll find their trinket in exchange for food,”

“You’re not going  _ now,  _ are you?” Jaskier gasped, appalled. 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I’m setting out the bedrolls,” he cocked his head and grinned, all teeth. “Or tent, if you want more privacy,  _ sir poet _ .” 

Jaskier went red. He turned on his heel, ignoring Geralt’s deep chuckle and ignoring the confines of his breeches. Upon reaching the campfire, all heads turned to hear Jaskier’s response, faces all a varying degree of emotions, ranging from hopefulness and eagerness, to distrust and even sorrow. Orlo stood to face him. “So?” the old elf wrung his hands together.

“What? Oh, yeah. He’ll do it. Yeah, he’ll get your stuff back. In exchange for food. Anything else? No? Goodnight.” 

Jaskier turned on his heel and walked through the camp with the speed of a man about to get the best dicking of his life. 

It wasn’t hard to find Geralt. Lead by his nose and dick, Jaskier discovered the small camp only a short walk away from where their new friends had set up. Man of his word, Geralt had set up the only tent they had, small and ratty with more holes than expensive cheese, but it was protection from prying eyes and the occasional rainfall. 

If Jaskier craned his neck back far enough and let his eyes unfocus he could convince himself that the milky black was the waves of an ocean, ready to swallow him whole. Jaskier had only seen the ocean once, on a trip with his family when he was a child. The trip itself was a mess, the carriage stuffy and uncomfortable, his family bickering about the salt and the sand and the heat, but if he closed his eyes real tight, Jaskier could still smell the sea salt on the winds and hear the crash of the waves. As the winds blew over the grasslands, Jaskier could still hear the resemblance of ocean waves in the billowing grass. When he inhaled, the smell of dark soil and threatening rainstorms flooded Jaskier’s scenes, opening his eyes to see two booted feet peeking out from the entrance of the tent, where Geralt was too large to completely fit. Jaskier smothered a chuckle into his palm, careful not to disturb Geralt. Instead, he decided to go in for a sneak attack. Crouching low to the grass, Jaskier more or less silently slipped through the tent’s flaps, mindful of Geralt’s feet, and crawled inside the tent.

Geralt was positioned on his side with only his cloak for warmth, despite the two wool blankets neatly folded on Jaskier’s side of the tent. Silver hair, muted by the dark shadows, caught the starlight that streamed through the tears in the canvas. Jaskier reached out and twirled a long, silver strand around his finger, silky strands running through his hands like water. Geralt twitched and peeled open a golden eye to give Jaskier the all too common glare.    
“Sorry?” Jaskier tried. Geralt sat up, head nearly brushing the roof of the tent. “I’ll make it up to you?” Jaskier leaned in close, close enough that his lips brushed the shell of Geralt’s ears, and gave a little puff of air. He whispered, “Let me make it up to you.”

Golden eyes glinted in the silver rays of the moon and white, white teeth flashed - a threat? a promise? - and Geralt maneuvered his oversized body to face Jaskier in the small tent. “Is this private enough for you, bard?”

“Oh not nearly enough, I’ve been told I’m a screamer,” Geralt’s eyes flashed at that. “But, I suppose I could try to stay quiet. For the sake of our new friends’ honor, of course.”   
“Of course,” Geralt said, mouth dangerously close to where Jaskier’s pulse raced beneath the skin, teeth scraping along his neck raising goosebumps in their wake. 

“I - uh - I also - um - believe we should consider Roach’s dignity -  _ oh, _ ” Geralt chuckled against Jaskier’s neck before continuing his assault of teeth and tongue, biting and mouthing at the tender spot below Jaskier’s jawline.

“Of course,”

Jaskier moaned in a breathless sort of way as Geralt’s cold fingers traced the spot where the hem of Jaskier’s shirt met the waistline of his trousers, not quite touching skin, but enough to promise further excitement. 

“Think of - of the blankets,” With a firm hand against his chest, Jaskier was guided down onto his back, the witcher above, still at his neck, body hot and flushed against his. “They’ll get dirty,  _ oh, right there,  _ and -  _ gods,” _

Geralt pulled away, reeking of musk and pheromones. Jaskier could smell Geralt’s excitement, hot and heavy in the cramped tent. Jaskier could smell himself, the wetness between his thighs, a mixture of sweat from his thick, wool trousers and other unnamed body fluids. He grimaced at the thought of, yet again, ruining his new clothes, but strong hands unlacing the front of Jaskier’s tunic drew him back to the present. Geralt made quick work of his shirt, drawing the hem over Jaskier’s head and tossing it somewhere in the tent. Lying bare from his waist up, Jaskier trembled from the chilled air and the heat in his belly, overwhelmed at every turn.

There was a rumble inside him and  _ oh gods,  _ Jaskier thought to himself,  _ Please don’t let me get cockblocked by a werewolf. _ Luckily, the wolf settled down, leaving Jaskier alone to the overwhelming feeling of Geralt mouthing his way down his chest, from the bitten and bruised collarbone, teeth scraping over a dusky nipple, down to his ribcage that housed a racing heart. Jaskier tangled his fingers into the silver hair, pulling Geralt’s face up to his, meeting his mouth in a harsh kiss, pressing his tongue inside. Jaskier moaned into the kiss, feeling shocks run through his core as Geralt cruelty pinched at a nipple. Hungry, always hungry, Jaskier kissed Geralt like a dying man, biting at his lips, licking the inside of his mouth, drinking him up. As they broke away, Jaskier panting wildly, unaware of how little air he had, a thin line of saliva connected their mouths. 

“Fuck,” Geralt hissed.

“Well said,'' Jaskier said, fingers dancing under Geralt’s tunic, pushing the fabric up to reveal his muscular chest, glistening with beads of sweat. Jaskier licked his lips. Geralt, ever the gentleman, shifted himself to where his legs were still pining Jaskier on each side, trapping him in a prison of muscular thighs, but also allowing him to prop himself up on his elbows to enjoy the view. Jaskier did just that, following the way Geralt’s muscles rippled across his chest, all the way down to the trail of hair below the waistline. Jaskier felt like a fair maiden ravaged by a horny warlord in one of the songs. And Jaskier should know, he’s written a few. 

Jaskier watched Geralt’s fingers dance at the waistline of his trousers, dipping, below the band, pushing the fabric down at a snail’s pace, teasing the poor bard. A whine slipped past Jaskier’s lips and Geralt accidentally - or maybe not - ground his hips against the very obvious bulge between Jaskier’s legs.

“Oh, get fucked, you bastard,” Jaskier groaned, throwing his head back while furiously wiggling his hips in an attempt at some sort of contact.

Geralt laughed and pinned him down with one large palm to the chest. “I’m trying,” he said, maneuvering himself so he was positioned in between Jaskier’s legs. With one hand holding Jaskier to the ground, Geralt used his calloused fingers to make quick work of Jaskier’s pants, unlacing them with the speed of someone with more than enough experience, and tugging the fabric down Jaskier’s hips. 

The bite of cold air instantly cooled Jaskier’s feverish skin, chilling the sweat clinging to his body and Jaskier could smell himself then, the musk of arousal, the slick between his legs. It was a wonder Geralt hadn’t ravished him right then and there, instead, taking his time to bite at Jaskier’s calves and ankles, dig his thumbs into the sore muscles of Jaskier’s arches, press a kiss to the inside of Jaskier’s knee. 

When Geralt lifted his golden eyes to meet Jaskier’s, it was all Jaskier could do to not pounce on the witcher right then and there. Geralt cocked his head and grinned, and, as if reading Jaskier’s mind, gripped the outside of Jaskier’s thighs, fingers digging into the creamy, unmarked flesh, hard enough to leave marks, hooking his fingers along the hem of Jaskier’s underclothes. 

Jaskier trembled, mouth wet and hungry, dick twitching as Geralt peeled off the fabric, catching the sensitive flesh, sending shocks up Jaskier’s spine, breaths mingling together in the cramped tent. Jaskier groaned as he was released from the constricting underclothes. Teeth scraped along his inner thigh, nipping at the sensitive skin. Reaching down, Jaskier ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair, twisting the thick strands in the palm of his fist, and pulled Geralt’s head higher to where it should be. Geralt laughed, little more than a puff of air against Jaskier’s hip bone.

“Come on,” Jaskier whined. “Stop teasing me,” In retaliation, Geralt blew on Jaskier’s dick, causing the bard to squeal and kick his legs, but to no avail, as Geralt cupped his hands behind Jaskier’s knees, lifted his backside off the ground and threw Jaskier’s kicking legs over his shoulders. The feeling of being exposed, spread for not only Geralt to see, but anyone who stumbled upon their tent, was both exhilarating and terrifying, leaving Jaskier a sweaty, trembling, dripping mess. And when Geralt’s mouth was finally on him, Jaskier opened his mouth and sobbed.

In an instant, a hand was clamped over his mouth. Through teary eyes, Jaskier glared at Geralt, who looked at him, and raised a finger to his lips, a strange sort of expression on his face, like he was pleased with tormenting Jaskier. 

“Hush,” he whispered into Jaskier’s thigh, stubble scratching the soft skin, eyes wild and predatory. “What if someone investigates?” Jaskier whined into the palm, hips jerking, dripping cock searching for more of the silky insides of Geralt’s mouth. Turns out, Jaskier only had to wait a few seconds more, until Geralt leaned down to take Jaskier into him, swallowing him with one fluid motion of his head. Trembling and whining, Jaskier felt as if he could melt into the grass. 

He reached between Geralt’s legs, feeling the bulge confined in the dark material, and with the tips of his fingers, traced along the front of Geralt’s pants, dipping them beneath the waistband. As Geralt lapped at Jaskier, Jaskier wrapped his fingers around Geralt’s length, jerking him to full harden. Geralt moaned around Jaskier, sending vibrations racing through his body. Clever fingers moved from behind Jaskier’s knees and traced along his body, pressing into the hollow of his hip bones, scratching at his lower back, dipping low to dig blunt fingernails into the flesh of his backside, kneading and spreading him open to the cool air. Jaskier gasped into the palm and tightened his grip in Geralt’s hair. If it hurt, Geralt didn’t show it, only swallowing Jaskier deeper, his sensitive tip brushing against the back of Geralt’s hot throat. Warmth gathered in his core. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was muffled. He tugged on Geralt’s hair, pulling his mouth off his sensitive flesh. Geralt moved his hand off Jaskier’s mouth as he pulled away. He leaned over Jaskier, folding him nearly in half, to press his mouth against Jaskier’s. He could taste himself inside Geralt’s mouth, salty and heavy. It drove him insane. “Geralt,” he whispered against Geralt’s cheek. “If you don’t fuck me now, I will kill you. I’m serious.”

Geralt pulled away from Jaskier, not-so-subtly hiding a grin, and licked his lips. Animalistic. “What if I hurt you?”   
Jaskier grinned. Wolfish. “I heal pretty quickly, remember. Besides,” he ground his backside against Geralt’s length. “I want it to hurt.”

Geralt smiled, more sharp teeth than anything else, and leaned over Jaskier, reaching for his sack, ruffling his hand through for a moment before drawing out a small jar filled with a murky liquid that looked suspiciously like olive oil. After popping the cork pushed into the vial, Geralt tipped the jar forward until the liquid spilled from the lip, coating his fingers in - Jaskier gave a big sniff - olive oil. He grimaced at the smell, hoping for something more -  _ refined? -  _ like lavender oils or something along those lines. But all his criticisms washed away upon feeling slick fingers rub between his legs, drawing a low moan from deep within Jaskier’s chest. Warm oil coated his backside like Jaskier was some pork roast, but as the fingers slipped inside him, curling at his insides, Jaskier found that he didn’t mind at all. In fact, Jaskier enjoyed being stretched and pulled apart from the inside so much, that he nearly came right then and there. He squeaked and sighed and arched off the floor as Geralt’s sword-roughened hands stretched him open, the burn sweet and painful. 

Finally, when Jaskier was no more than a trembling mess, legs kicking uselessly as they were spread wide to accommodate Geralt’s large body, pleas and curses falling from his red, spit slicked lips, and hardness dripping all over his chest, did Geralt pull out his fingers. 

He leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Jaskier lips while pouring olive oil into the palm of his hand. Jaskier watched, hungry, as Geralt slicked up his length, smearing precum leaking from the tip around the rest of him. He looked up, meeting Jaskier’s eyes, and after a quick nod of approval, Geralt pushed himself into Jaskier, stretching him farther than Jaskier though he could handle. Burning pressure, though not entirely unpleasant, filled Jaskier’s lower end, making him hiss through his teeth. Geralt immediately stopped. “Are you okay?” he whispered into Jaskier’s hair, hands running up and down Jaskier’s sides, raising goosebumps in their wake.

Jaskier threaded his arms around Geralt’s neck. “Keep going, it’s not bad,” he said. To prove it, he ground his hips down, taking in more of Geralt, who panted heavily in his ear. As repayment, Jaskier received a cruel twist to his nipple. Laughs turned into moans when Geralt thrust his hips in shallow motions, pressing himself in but not deep enough, the tantalizing promise of something more hidden with each thrust. At that moment, Jaskier realized that he was not too proud to beg. He wrapped his legs around Geralt, pressing his calves tight to the witcher’s back, hooking his ankles together, and  _ pulled  _ Geralt to him, pressing him deeper inside. He moaned in Geralt’s ear, breath hot, tickling the baby hair around the witcher’s ear.

“Jaskier,” Geralt moaned against his neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin, fingers dancing across the bite at Jaskier’s side, where the wolf had sunk its teeth into his skin, hips thrusting in shallow motions.

Slowly, the burning pressure faded into something else entirely, a building pleasure in Jaskier’s stomach, and as Geralt thrust deeper into him, a tiny bundle of nerves was struck, sending bolts of heat to his core. He buried his head in Geralt’s neck, thrusting back against him, jerking his hips to rub himself against Geralt’s washboard abs. Soon, he was coming, hot spurts of white streaking between their bodies. Jaskier collapsed. Eyes closed in bliss, he allowed Geralt to manhandle him like some ragdoll, pinning his legs to his chest and fucking him deep. A moment later Geralt came. Sweat clinging to his brow, silver hair wild and unkempt, finger pressing into Jaskier’s mouth, swiping along the velvet tongue and sharp teeth. 

Slick oil and cum seeped out of Jaskier as Geralt pulled out, soft and wet. Jaskier watched through sleepy eyes as Geralt searched for a rag to clean themselves up. After a few seconds of searching, Geralt settled for a spare scrap of cloth that could have been used as a makeshift bandage and gently wiped away the sweat at Jaskier’s brow, cum staining his stomach, and finally, the mess between his legs. Despite the soft hand, the cloth stung Jaskier’s tender skin, now that the adrenaline had worn off. Jaskier whined and rolled onto his stomach, hoping to relieve the growing ache of his backside. Little good that did. Burning ass in the air, Jaskier closed his eyes, hoping for some sleep despite the constant ache, but a warm hand on his rump drew him back to the waking world. Geralt, ever the gentleman, bundled Jaskier up in a warm, wool blanket, pressed a kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s upturned lips, and slipped behind the bard, draping a hand around his waist. That night, as they curled together under the same wool blanket, Jaskier tucked close to Geralt’s warm chest, nose buried in his skin, finding it far too easy to memorize his smell, Geralt’s arms tight around his waist, their hearts beating in sync, the wolf slept, too.


End file.
